


Hutch's Hands

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: Academy, Fantasy elements, Gen, h/c, meeting fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Starsky discovers Ken Hutchinson’s secret power of being able to heal pain with just one touch, he freaks out.  An unpromising start to what becomes the closest friendship of his life—and the most dangerous one.  Because there are people who will stop at nothing to bring Hutch’s power back under their control—and they are part of his Family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an unusually dream-like story, perhaps because it came to me when I was half asleep. It’s perhaps an AU, perhaps just a fantasy version of our guys’ beginnings together. I believe it could nearly fit with the show, although it’s definitely not canon. 
> 
> The story is fantasy. Hutch has a sort of superpower of taking away people’s pain with his touch. If that sounds unusual, it is. It’s not the sort of story I usually write. 
> 
> It's also the best S&H story I've written so far, I think. I tried to turn it into original fiction, and failed: apparently it's really about Starsky and Hutch!!
> 
> The concept of the Family was partially inspired by “The silent strength of stones,” by Nina Kiriki Hoffman, an excellent YA fantasy that I highly recommend.
> 
> Take care,  
> Allie

**NOTE** :  I have chosen not to use warnings for this story.  If you need them, they can be found here: <http://bromancestory.livejournal.com/10696.html>

 

**THANKS:**

With many thanks to Barancoire for beta help :)

And thanks to my artists!! :)  I was fortunate enough to have three amazing artists work on my story.  Check out their work:

<http://nickygabriel.livejournal.com/658124.html>

<http://hutcherie.livejournal.com/17061.html>

<http://by-elvira.livejournal.com/7166.html>

　

 

 

 

 

 

**Hutch’s Hands**

by Allie

　

　

David Starsky stood in the entrance to the police academy, and he knew he couldn’t do it.

His heart pounded too hard; it was too much. The day shone bright and hopeful, but all he could remember was his father’s funeral, and seeing all these uniforms mixed in with the students made his breath tight, made it burn in his throat. He felt like throwing up.

Someone bumped against him and then someone else. "Move it, punk," growled a voice.

Starsky moved. His heart was pounding too hard, and he felt funny inside, shaky. He moved to the side, to lean against the wall and catch his breath.

_If it’s going to be like this every time I see a uniform, I’ll never make it as a cop._

He didn’t know how long he stood there, trying to catch his breath, trying to get his courage up, wondering if he would have to go back home and give up his dream.

Someone walking by jostled his shoulder. He turned to glare at whoever it was, but the blond man was already past, and he couldn’t see his face. The blond guy wore a blue sweatshirt and his hair was a little too long; he’d probably have to get it cut for the academy. Must be another new guy.

Starsky frowned after him, and then started to walk in after him.

It took him a full two minutes to realize he’d completely forgotten to worry about his father. The tight pain in his chest had disappeared.

He lasted the rest of the day without panicking more than twice. Perhaps he was just getting over it.

But the very next day it was back.

The first sight of a cop in the hall made his chest tighten, made his head feel like swirling, made him remember Dad and the coffin, and how neat his uniform had looked…

He wandered through the day, somehow, wondering how he’d ever, ever make it through the academy. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out to be a cop. Maybe he’d have to give up on his dream.

…And do what? What else could he possibly do? Getting out of the army had been a big relief. And he didn’t want to work for his uncle anymore, either. He’d never really wanted to be anything but a cop like his dad.

_I can do this, I know I can do this. C’mon, Starsky. Pull your head out of the sand and do this!_

_Yeah right….I can’t do this. My dad…I’m letting my dad down because I can’t do this. What’s wrong with me?_

"You’re blocking the hallway," said someone in a quiet voice. A hand brushed his arm as the big blond guy walked by again.

Starsky stared after him, feeling all the anxiety drain from his body. He stood there strangely relaxed, calm inside; a strange, gentle numbness seemed to reach from his head to his toes.

He stared after the blond guy, and blinked.

After that, Starsky made it his business to keep an eye out for that blond man.

His name was Hutchinson, and he’d been to college.

From that day forward, Starsky watched him. Just...watched. Trying to figure this mystery out.

He found out the Hutchinson’s first name was Ken. But his nickname was Hutch. He kept his mouth shut in class, even when he knew the answer. He liked to bowl, and he was apparently the most boring, placid guy in this year’s class. He was also one of the tallest, and definitely the blondest, with pale hair that made him stick out like a neon sign. And he didn’t seem to have a habit of making people’s panic vanish.

If Starsky hadn’t felt it himself, he’d have thought it was too stupid to be true. But he _knew_ he hadn’t imagined that.

#

Then one day they faced each other across a wrestling mat.

Up close, Hutchinson was big. Or rather, he seemed bigger. His eyes seemed bluer. Was it that intensity, like anger, that his face held? He seemed to have shucked aside the quiet farm boy persona and be preparing to test himself all out against Starsky’s strength and cunning.

The two faced off for long moments, waiting for the signal to begin their contest. He couldn’t...for a second, he didn’t want to fight Hutchinson. He wanted to get away and just watch, and see what the big blond did.

Was that...fear, traversing his spine? Nerves, maybe. He wouldn’t get scared of a college boy, surely not.

The bell rang and they started for each other.

A lunge, a counter lunge, and Starsky was down. College Boy had him securely pinned. _How’d he…?_

Starsky struggled, but it was fruitless; whatever he’d done, whatever stunt he’d pulled, College Boy was good at it. Starsky tried going limp, maybe get Hutchinson to lower his guard. But it didn’t work. He kept a tight grip, calm but completely in control of the situation, didn’t let up the pressure of his arms, the grip of his hands even a little. His eyes were softer now, not so intense, almost as if he meant some communication with them. Starsky didn’t understand it and didn’t like it.

For a second, Starsky had the suffocating feeling that he wouldn’t be able to draw a breath. Hutchinson was too close, was on top of him, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and the bell would never ring. In that crawling moment of panic, he fought, struggled until he gasped harsh breaths through his teeth, hating this guy who wouldn’t let up on him.

Hutchinson’s hand tightened in a gentle squeeze on his arm, tightening an already firm grip. But it didn’t hurt. It was like a switch flipped.

Starsky could breathe. His anger and panic reduced exponentially, a calm feeling overtaking him, like being pleasantly tired and climbing out of the water, something like lethargy; something like peace. He took a deep breath and looked into Hutchinson’s eyes. College Boy knew; whatever he’d done he knew it. And it felt so good.

For a moment, Starsky struggled against even that good feeling; but it was too tempting, too all-around pleasant.

The bell rang and Hutchinson let him up, helped him up; his hands were careful now. But hadn’t they always been? He hadn’t actually hurt Starsky; it had been panic.

For a second he didn’t want to let go of that big hand. And then he did, and moved away, trying to conceal the weird emotions going through him. The peaceful feeling stayed, wearing off slowly: a mellow, sleepy, Sunday-morning, slow-waking-up feeling.

He sat through class, examining the last of the feeling, both picking at it the way you would at a loose tooth and trying to hold onto it, savor it. But the more he thought about it the more quickly it dispersed, and he began to grow afraid again. Hutchinson could control him. Hutchinson had done something. Hutchinson wasn’t _natural_.

And then he wondered what else Hutchinson could make him do…

He didn’t look at Hutchinson; by the end of the class he couldn’t. He was crawling with shame and nerves.

Starsky couldn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning, with crazy plans, thinking he’d turn Hutchinson in, denounce him as—something. It wasn’t natural, it just couldn’t be. He’d done something, with his hands, his eyes, like Starsky was his prey. But instead of scaring him, Hutchinson had calmed him.

Except…his eyes…before the match. If he could look that dangerous, then he could scare you too, he could do whatever he wanted. Starsky was shivering, his teeth chattered a little, even though it wasn’t cold.

He had to leave the academy; he didn’t belong here. Had to get away. He’d never belonged.

The phone rang.

He picked it up, warily. "Yeah?" Who would call him in the middle of the night like this? It must be something important.

"Starsky," said a crisp, quiet voice.

Starsky went cold and rigid. "Who is this?"

"Hutchinson. I wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened in class today. For scaring you."

"How’d you get this number?"

"You’re in the phone book, genius."

That at least sounded more normal. He remembered the touch, the way Hutchinson had made him feel calm inside. He brought a shaking hand to his head and swallowing. It couldn’t work through the phone, could it? Just his voice? He’d be the most powerful man in the world, if that was the case. He’d _run_ the world.

"Anyway, I wanted to apologize. I think I—I made you nervous," the voice finished in a low, awkward tone.

"What’d you do to me?" said Starsky abruptly. "Some kind of voodoo spell? Today, and earlier. You did something. Something—with your hands or your eyes. You some kind of warlock?"

"No! I wouldn’t... I just…"

"You just what?" His breathing sounded ragged and harsh in his own ears, and reflected back through the phone.

"I didn’t want you to be hurt," said Hutchinson awkwardly. He sounded confused and embarrassed, but not scared the way Starsky did—and that had to change.

"Yeah? Well, how about I go to the authorities with this? The school, maybe? How ‘bout the government?" He listened fiercely, but heard no response, no reaction at all. "Hello? You still there?"

"You think they’d listen?" said Hutchinson quietly. "You really think they’d listen?"

"But—but you can—do things! Tell me that’s normal. That’s…I’m sorry, but you’re wrong, Hutchinson, something is wrong with you. And I want you out of my head, and don’t touch me or—or look at me again or I’ll call the—the FBI, the president, whoever I h-have to call." Shouting made him feel a little better, but his bravado was going now, he was shaking. All he had to do was see the blond one more time and he could end up in his power for good.

"It’s not like that." Kenneth Hutchinson sounded exasperated and frustrated. "You think I can just control people? I can’t. I can…sense pain. I’ve always been able to. And sometimes I can take it—or some of it—away. Like…a painkiller, or a…a…" He was searching, groping for words that weren’t there. His expulsion of breath sounded frustrated. "I don’t know what. I’ve never heard of anyone else quite like me, and I highly doubt we’d be dangerous if there were."

He must be flustered, at least a little, or he wouldn’t have given up his precise way of speaking. He was still quiet, though, and relatively calm. Oddly enough, his words made Starsky feel calmer, too. Or was that the point? Was he doing it again?

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Look, if I was what you seem to think, do you really think I’d be interested in infiltrating a police academy and getting control of some low-level student with daddy issues, so messed up he can hardly see straight?"

Starsky sat very still, not breathing, not blinking, not thinking or feeling. A weird sort of ringing seemed to be in his head.

"I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry, Starsky. I shouldn’t have said that." Hutch was very quiet now, penitent. "I shouldn’t have. I—I’m sorry. Are you all right?"

 _Yes. No_. "Don’t call me again." He slammed down the phone. He’d stopped shaking, felt oddly calm. He would pack tomorrow and leave; that was all. He lay down, and then got up again and took a double dose of sleeping pills; and then he cried.

Someone knew. Someone had seen inside of him and despised him, and it hurt so bad. He wished he’d never laid eyes on that damned blond.

Morning brought with it pain, but not the memory of why; he felt miserable and just wanted to forget it. His limbs were like lead; it made no sense, but he didn’t want to leave. Even though he wasn’t doing well at the academy, and it had brought back all this old stuff about his father dying, he wanted to be here. He wanted to belong and prove himself and wear the blue uniform and mean something with his life, _do_ something. But…Hutchinson. Starsky began to fold his clothes, very carefully.

There was a knock on the door. He went to get it, slowly, listlessly.

　


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

　

Hutchinson stood there, a bag in his hand. He faced Starsky stiffly, impersonally, not looking into his eyes at all but above, over his head somewhere.

At first sight of him, Starsky let out a strangled cry and jerked back, trying to shut the door. He was too fast and clumsy, and caught his foot, and banged his funny bone so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Hutchinson bit his lip. "I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving today." His voice was very impersonal. "I…I won’t hurt you," he added even more quietly.

Starsky’s breath was coming in funny little gasps, and he couldn’t answer, couldn’t say the million things racing through his head.

Hutchinson hesitated, biting his lip, looking as if he knew he’d regret this; and then he reached out. The big, warm hand was on Starsky’s arm, and Starsky gasped in a breath like a man coming out of water after a long time. The fear, the heavy cloud of pain lifted, and he could think and feel again; and the pain in his foot was gone, too.

Quickly, the hand released him. The blond regarded him sadly, a bitter, cynical twist to his mouth. Starsky just blinked, just stared at him feeling like a rabbit caught in headlights, a rabbit who would die before it would look away.

"I’m going now," repeated Hutchinson, and he turned sadly, his shoulders bowed.

And somehow Starsky found himself running after him, babbling, "Don’t go, don’t go, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave." He was in his pajamas, and grabbing Hutch’s arm, and he’d lost all control, because tears were sliding down his face and he hadn’t cried so hard, not in years. He heard sobs and they couldn’t be his, because he didn’t cry like that, he just didn’t.

Hutchinson turned him around and hauled the two of them back into Starsky’s room quickly.

"Here, sit down. You’re okay." He got Starsky onto a seat, and Starsky sat like that, gasping in gulps of breath, holding his head in his hands, looking at the floor, and realizing in a fascinated, oddly disconnected way that his tears were actually falling all the way, getting the floor wet between his feet.

"It’s okay." Hutchinson gripped his shoulder, gentle, no pressure, no intimacy, and again, the pain abated. A mellow warmth seemed to spread through him, slow as melted chocolate, a delicious, warm feeling, less immediate and also more profound than either of the other times had been.

He was still crying, couldn’t seem to stop that, but now Hutchinson had him, he wasn’t alone, the pain wasn’t…he could…he felt so much better. He could breathe. He could breathe. He turned towards Hutchinson and tried to hug him; the blond pulled back as if repulsed.

"Don’t…"

Starsky sat gulping back his tears, looking at him through wet eyes, not understanding.

Hutchinson glared at him. "Don’t. You won’t mean it in a minute. Just…don’t touch me."

He got up and moved away, as if Starsky disgusted him. He picked up his bag again.

"Hutch. Don’t go." He spoke without wanting to, without realizing he was doing so, and from the deepest parts of himself. He sounded like a little boy even in his own ears. "Don’t leave me."

"You can’t live like this, and neither can I. Can’t you see why it’s got to be secret? I wish I’d never…" He let his voice trail off, a bitter tilt to his mouth.

"I won’t tell. I’ll never tell."

"You will. You’ll get scared of me again and go run and tell on me—and a fat lot of good it will do you. With such a crazy story, you’ll just get kicked out and blame me for that too. Like I’d have to interfere to make people think you were nuts!"

"I—I wouldn’t." The peaceful feeling now warred with a confused feeling. Now Hutchinson didn’t like him anymore? "Hutch?"

"Go to bed, Starsky. Skip class and sleep it off. You’re drunk."

"I’m—not drunk." He blinked. That accusation kind of hurt, beneath the delicious good feeling of nothing hurting, nothing at all.

Hutchinson sighed. "Look, just go to sleep, and everything will be fine when you wake up." He still had that exasperated frown on his face. "Here. Go over there. To your bed." He spoke as if directing a child and took Starsky’s arm, helping him up.

Starsky’s steps wobbled. He hiccupped once, but the tears seemed to be ended.

"Now lie down, go to sleep. It’s okay. Everything’s okay." His calm voice made it seem true. But most of all, his hand stroked Starsky’s head, two, three strokes, the most calming hands in the world. "And I promise you, it wasn’t your fault, when your father died. And don’t you think he’d be proud of you?"

Starsky nodded happily. "He loved me."

"Of course he did. And he loves you still. Now close your eyes and think of your father and how he loves you."

Starsky closed his eyes. He went to sleep so happy and calm and secure, like floating in a lake of warm milk; and he just knew Hutchinson would be there when he awoke.

* * * *

He wasn’t.

Everything was different. Hutchinson was gone.

Starsky felt like he’d gotten the best sleep of his life, but Hutchinson was gone. The magical blond had left.

And then he remembered. He’d said he was leaving.

Starsky almost fell on his face, in his hurry to throw on clothes and shoes and get out the door.

But it was hours, it was later, he’d never find him. Never. He’d chased Hutch away, it was all his fault.

_Hutch!_

He searched the crowds frantically, but there was nothing, there was no one. Starsky let out a frustrated groan. Of course Hutch was good. How had Starsky doubted Hutch was good? But all the same, he’d driven him off. Hutchinson was gone forever.

Starsky dragged himself through classes. But even with his guilt and concern, he hadn’t felt this rested, this at peace, or this able to concentrate since…since…well not as long as he’d been here, certainly. Hutchinson had really reached inside and fixed something, made it better. However he’d done it, and whether or not it would last, it felt awfully good to be something close to whole inside.

He found himself grinning, smiling towards the sun, noticing how colorful his fellow students dressed, how beautiful and cheerful the whole world looked, and the way the trees waved their arms in the breeze. He hugged his textbook and laughed, before he remembered he’d chased Hutch away.

He felt like a little kid again, a little kid who had his father back, somehow, someway, and in some part of his heart.

* * * *

The third day he received a visitor, a little old lady, fierce-looking with a square jaw.

A scary little grandmother lady, dressed in a saggy, wrinkled gray trouser suit. She glared at him right off, seemed to think the worst of him, as if he’d stolen her cookies and teased her cat.

He smiled down at her—he had a smile for everyone these days—and said, "Yes? Can I help you?"

"You will never reveal my grandson’s secret. You will be harmless to the Family. Do you hear me, boy? Answer."

Starsky blinked and gulped. "Y-yes ma’am." He felt a scary twisting in his gut now; it was…this was…she…that order. It traveled down inside, churning around in his gut like worms, like stomach flu.

"Repeat it."

"I will not reveal your grandson’s secret. I’ll be harmless to the Family." The words spilled out of him, and the word Family held the same intensity as when she used it. "Who is your grandson?" he couldn’t help asking.

"Don’t you know?" She looked at him. "Kenneth Hutchinson." She turned, and glided away, fierce and small and so scary the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention.

Hutchinson. He’d sicced his grandmother on Starsky. If that didn’t beat all.

The next day, he was back in class. Hutchinson, as if nothing had happened. He looked a little sheepish, kept his head down, and then smiled nervously when the other students teased him, but it seemed to all have been explained; the teachers declared it had been a family emergency, quite with conviction. Had his grandmother visited them, too?

Starsky was fascinated, but determined to keep his distance. Not because he feared Hutch any longer—or even his grandmother, not really—(he hadn’t meant to tell anyhow), but because he wanted to know more about this enigma. This man who could spread so much comfort with just a touch, and yet who seemed determined to be as normal as he could possibly be.

Starsky watched him, watched the sun shine on his neatly combed, pale hair. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if Starsky could sit down next to him, over there on the grass while he chewed his sandwich and apple, and start talking to him? As if he were a friend? Ask what he’d done in his life, and where he was going, and what he liked to do.

But Hutch just sat there and kept chewing, and Starsky didn’t know what to do. It would seem like he was stalking Hutch or something if he just walked up and started talking.

But…this stranger. He’d…he wasn’t a stranger, not anymore. He meant something. He’d cared enough to help Starsky in a way that no one else could. Could Starsky just ignore that for the rest of his life?

Hutch finished his lunch and arose, without once looking in Starsky’s direction. Starsky wondered if he’d even been aware of his stare.

But of course he was. Hutch was aware of far more than he let on, wasn’t he?

And who, anyway, was The Family?

He began to do some research. Oh, he couldn’t talk about Hutch’s power, but he looked in the library for references to The Family. He even asked a librarian in a roundabout, casual way. Grandma should’ve been more specific; she hadn’t said he couldn’t be curious, simply that he couldn’t hurt them.

The Family, capitalized, sometimes referred to Mob families. But Starsky didn’t think that was the case with super-powered Hutch and his grandma. But his research didn’t take him anywhere else, and he still had his work to do. Especially Investigative Procedures. He’d fall even further behind the leaders if he didn’t make it a priority.

Every night when he went to bed, after yawning over his books till his eyes ached, he thought about his dad, and every night, it was without the pain he used to feel, all that everlasting guilt and regret.

If only everything was so easy! If you were someone like Hutch, how could you ever have problems again? You just wouldn’t let anything upset you or make you depressed or afraid. Hutch must be happy all the time.

And yet…and yet…he never looked happy. Never, not once. Oh, he smiled, with his friends, put on a cheerful face and laughed, talked or listened in an engaged manner, but when he was alone again—and he was alone a great deal—the smile fell away to a preoccupied look, a meditative, plodding attitude, as if he were forcing himself through each day.

And still, Starsky didn’t press; he didn’t dare, more from Hutch’s silence than from any ‘Family’-related fear. Something…there was something like a wall, something keeping Hutchinson separate from other people, and Starsky dare not try to cross it until the blond decided it could be let down.

‘Until.’ Now he was being stupid. There was no ‘until.’ He was Hutch, that was all, and his walls, his life were his own. He was some kind of superhuman among mortals; there were no rules or timetable that could be used to figure him out. So Starsky just watched.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three

　

　

It was almost a week before he saw Hutch watching him back—glancing quickly in another direction when Starsky turned to look at him. Sometimes, Starsky felt the gaze on his back, but didn’t quite dare turn to meet it. It cheered him to think someday Hutch might let down the wall enough to talk to him again. Oh, not that he wanted anything from Hutch; that would be wrong, really wrong, especially after how much he’d already done.

But…just to talk to him. To ask questions. To…to talk to him.

Starsky seemed to have an easier time making friends these days. He wasn’t so preoccupied with his heavy pain, with struggling just to make it through class. Now, after what Hutch had done, Starsky found himself downright sociable. He could laugh and joke, he could tease, he could even spare some time to go out and have fun with the guys.

And so it was, somehow, he found himself on the same bowling team with Hutch, one day when they were both being sociable. Thus far they’d avoided one another—on purpose, or perhaps accidentally. But that day they did not, and he was sitting here with a surreal feeling on one of the hard black bowling chairs, watching the big blond guy. Wearing gaudy orange and yellow bowling shoes, Hutch walked up the aisle and flung the ball. He stood there awkwardly a moment and then straightened and pumped his arms and said "Yes!" when the pins fell down in a strike.

Starsky found himself grinning and cheering with the others, hooting over the ribbing someone else was giving Hutch. And somehow it felt right to go up and slap him on the back just like the rest of the gang, and tell him, "Now get another like that and we’re home free!"

For a second, the blond man’s eyes met his, shy and happy, and then he was shaking someone else’s hand, and Starsky wondered if this perfectly normal person could be who he thought after all. Maybe Hutch had an identical twin, or perhaps it had all been a dream.

But he couldn’t have dreamed how much better he now felt.

When it was his turn to bowl, he did well enough to get a few backslaps and some ribbing encouragement as well, and sure enough, Ken was one who slapped him on the back. The touch felt completely normal—none of his super power evident—and neither too friendly nor too standoffish. Starsky would never figure this guy out.

But all the same, after that they began to hang in the same circles, going out with the crowds, ending up in a study group together, even getting together for practice runs. Always it was as a group, as a pack of academy pals. It was true that Starsky still kept a special eye on Hutch, but he kept everything low-key. He sure wanted to talk about everything, though.

Then one day it was just three of them, him: him, Hutch, and Colby, who was a nice guy, if a little wild and raucous sometimes. They were at Colby’s apartment, and suddenly he jumped up and swore. "No ice! Sorry guys, be right back—and maybe a little vodka, too." He gave Starsky a wink and left, not even giving Hutch a chance to get out his first alarmed word of protest. Starsky was fairly sure Hutch had wanted to volunteer to go instead.

Now, Colby took off and Hutch sat back down the rest of the way wearing a slight frown. He turned his bottle between his hands, and then faced Starsky. "So, uh, Starsky, right? How’s it going? You think you’ll pass Schuler’s exam?"

Starsky looked at him with a faint, naughty grin. "Do you sic your grandmother on all the people who tick you off?"

The reaction was pronounced. Hutch actually jumped. He looked so startled his eyes bugged. He hadn’t dropped his beer bottle; his hands gripped it so tight they went white at the knuckles. Starsky chuckled to see the blond so taken aback, so surprised. He hadn’t expected this reaction.

Hutch eyed him warily. "Wh-what did she do? I thought she made you forget."

Starsky raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Oh? She can do that?"

"Yeah, I was…" He swallowed. "…annoyed, when she interfered, but…" He shrugged. "There seemed no point in throwing my opportunity at the academy away, if you really weren’t going to remember. What did she say?" He stared at Starsky as if he’d suddenly become fascinating, instead of someone to be avoided.

Starsky shrugged. "Told me I couldn’t reveal your secret, and that I was harmless to the Family. And I guess I am. So why’d you avoid me, if you thought I didn’t remember?"

"I-I didn’t!" Then Hutch slumped, lowering his gaze. "I guess I-I felt guilty. First I interfere in your life, then my grandma wipes your memory."

Starsky took a deep breath. "Well. I—don’t think what you did was wrong. You helped me a lot. I…never got to say thanks." He looked at Hutch, feeling uncomfortable and shy, but needing to get the words out. "Thanks. Thank you."

Hutch gave a very small nod and looked down. He twisted his bottle between his hands.

Starsky watched him. "Since I can’t tell anyone now, you can tell me. How’d you do it? How’s it…work?"

Hutch shrugged, still gazing at the floor. "I dunno. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do." He looked up now, an intense look in his blue eyes, not devoid of pain. "I…I can sense pain, and remove some of it."

"How much? You seemed to get all of mine, about my dad." He watched the blond guy, fascinated. Who was he, and where did he get this amazing ability?

Again, Hutch shrugged. "It’s just…something…"

"But it’s not just if you touch someone, only if you decide to." Starsky tilted his bottle at Hutch, and then took another sip. "So that first day, when you brushed against me and then I felt calm all the sudden, and then the next day—you did that on purpose. How come? I’d never have guessed your secret if you hadn’t."

Now Hutch was going red. It was interesting to see him embarrassed. He had pale skin, and even under his tan a blush really showed up. "I…didn’t like to see you in pain."

"Why? You didn’t know me from Adam."

"I knew you were hurting, and had been for a long time. I…couldn’t just ignore that."

_Lots of people ignore pain, all the time. But he can’t._

Starsky stared at him. "Do you do this a lot? When you run across hurting people? You just kind of ‘accidentally’ take their hurt away?"

Hutch shrugged, again looking down. "S-sometimes. I usually try not to be so obvious. Usually nobody catches me. They j-just start to feel better and th-think…" He shrugged. "I don’t know what they think, really."

"Seems kinda like too good a skill to hide away," observed Starsky and took another slug.

"Oh, n-no." Hutch shook his head. "You saw how you got, when you thought I meant to take over the world." He met Starsky’s gaze self-consciously, nervously. "You still think that?"

"Nah." Starsky couldn’t help grinning. "Your grandmother—maybe. But nah, even she just wants everyone to leave her family alone. Is that what this is about? It’s because you’re part of some crazy special family. You can all do things, right? How come you don’t rule the world?"

"Nobody can have enough power to rule the world. And why would you want to? It would be such a hassle, a headache. Better to try to…live a good life and take care of your family. At least that’s what they always say, and I think so too. Except…" He frowned and rubbed a hand on his thigh, then switched his bottle and rubbed the other, either cleaning off sweat or perspiration from the cold bottle.

Starsky waited, but Hutch didn’t continue. "Except you’re becoming a cop, so you don’t totally buy it. You don’t want to just live your own life. You want to help people."

At Hutch’s acutely embarrassed nod, he knew he’d found the mark.

"They say I’m being foolish, I’ll figure it out soon enough and stop sticking my neck out to try to help people."

"I’m glad you helped me."

"Are you? Really?" Hutch looked closely at him. "I felt like I’d…abused my power or something. When you took off after me in the hall like that…I was honestly scared. It was like you were a different person."

"I was drunk, remember? You said so yourself. Drunk with whatever it was you did, that felt good and took away my hurt." It sounded weird to say it out loud, but it was true.

The blond looked more embarrassed still, but he nodded. "Yeah. I don’t do it a lot, and I guess I was worked up, so I o-overdid it accidentally." He looked at Starsky, apologetic. "Any rumors started from it?"

Starsky shrugged. "I haven’t heard any. I guess you got me squirreled away quick enough."

"Not the normal thing to have a guy crying in the hall."

Starsky shrugged. "It was pretty late."

"Still." He swirled his beer and drank, a frown furrowing his forehead. "Maybe my grandmother…" He frowned, shaking his head. "Sometimes I wish they wouldn’t interfere."

"But you’d be gone if she hadn’t," observed Starsky. "Hey, if they don’t want you to be a cop, how come she doesn’t just tell you to stay home?"

Hutch gave him a look he could only interpret as disapproving. "Do you realize what it would do to a family if we used our powers on each other? That’s a firm rule. You don’t do it."

"Even you?"

"Even me—unless I ask first. But…but I don’t have to ask regular people." He looked a little ashamed, even guilty. "They’d think I was a freak, and they’d never understand. So I only do it… secretly. I can’t help it sometimes."

Starsky nodded.

"So your folks are rich, right? They can just tell people to give them money, and they’ll get it."

Hutch grimaced. "It doesn’t work like that. You can’t—you can’t be flagrant like that, or you’ll get in trouble. We don’t want the authorities coming after us. Or…or a trail. They learned that a long time ago."

"But they _are_ rich?"

"Oh yes. Wealth kept in the family, good investments, powers put to good use. Oh yes, they’re rich. We have a…an ex-cotton plantation. On a whole island. It’s… beautiful. I grew up there." For a moment, he looked wistful.

"So how come you left?"

"Oh, so…insular. Only family allowed, and hired people who’ve been sworn, or grandmothered, to secrecy. The only ones there anywhere near my age were my cousins. Jack and Max and Mara. And…I hated how proud we were, like…the family was full of itself, just, so sure of being better than everyone else, and…and even if we could do something good and useful for the rest of the world, it wasn’t worth bothering with: no one else deserved it, no one was worth sticking our necks out for. But I got away. I went to college, and then…then I decided to become a police officer."

"Why not a psychiatrist or something like that?"

"And sit in a chair all day listening to people’s problems, when I could fix them, only they’d figure it out? I’d go nuts." He shook his head. "Not the job for me, even if I was allowed to straight-up help people. But cops…cops help people legitimately. And if I had to use my power sometimes, well, they wouldn’t be likely to guess. They’d just think I was a comforting cop, right?" He smiled at Starsky, quixotic and hopeful and earnest.

He looked full of good intentions, and somehow innocent. Starsky liked him for it, found himself smiling back. "Right." He nodded, as if he were absolutely positive, instead of vaguely uncertain. "And _you_ did help me."

Then the door banged. Colby was back. "Hey guys, forget vodka! Wait till you see what I got. Genuine moonshine. Rotgut!"

Starsky and Hutch smiled at each other over the empty space between their chairs, content to tuck the secret back into hiding. They turned to Colby in unison.

"Rotgut, you say?" said Hutch, politely pretending to be interested.

"No thanks," said Starsky. "I’ll stick with beer, buddy." He raised his empty and grinned.

Colby grinned. "We’ll mix it in a tub and make punch, or drink it straight, shots, and see who can last the longest…"

"Well, would you look at the time? I just remembered I got a date," said Starsky, glancing at his wrist for a fraction of a second. "See you, Colby. See you, Hutch."

Hutch stood up. "Hey, you’re not going to leave me here with this nut, are you?"

Starsky gave him an evil grin, waggled his eyebrows and his fingers. "See ya, cowpokes!" He sauntered from the room, not too fast, not too slow, and let the door slam behind him.

Behind him, he heard Colby. "Ignore him. Let’s have a party! Hey, call some girls. I don’t know, pick ‘em out of the phone book! I’m gonna go tell the neighbors…"

"No, I’ll tell the neighbors," said Hutch, quiet and firm.

Starsky stopped walking and waited for him. The blond guy popped out, walking fast on his long legs, nervous looking, his hair mussed up.

"What took you so long?" Starsky grinned. He jerked his head towards his car, and Hutch hesitated a perceptible moment before reaching for the door. Then he stopped.

"Hey." Hutch jerked a thumb towards Colby’s place.

Starsky looked up at him quickly, but he was addressing someone next door.

"He’s having a party up there. Tell people, huh? And dump some of his moonshine, if you get a chance."

"Moonshine?" said the guy, looking interested.

"Yeah, and he’s going to be a cop. It’s a bad way to begin."

"Have to help him out then." The neighbor grinned, and started towards Colby’s place.

Hutch got in the passenger’s side and slammed the door to Starsky’s ragtag red car.

"Aw, and he even keeps his promises." Starsky turned the key and it took on the second try.

"Shut up," said Hutch.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

　

After that they were together a lot, with or without other people around. Hutch would occasionally bring up something about his family, and Starsky listened gladly. He didn’t go out of his way to bug Hutch with questions, but Hutch seemed glad, even relieved, to confide in him, as if the words just had to come out sometimes.

However unlikely, they seemed to be becoming friends—real friends. Aside from jogging together and studying together more often now, they spent free time in each other’s company. Starsky liked how utterly relaxed they seemed to be around each other. They both knew secrets about the other, and yet—and yet they were safe.

Maybe Hutch only felt safe because he knew Starsky couldn’t tell, but Starsky liked to think Hutch trusted him a little, too. Starsky certainly trusted the big, quiet blond, just trusted him from the bottom of his heart, without planning to or meaning to or even understanding why. Was it a side effect of what Hutch had done? If so, he was glad to have it. He believed in this guy in a way he hadn’t believed in many people in his life: believed in the best from him, and that he was kind and good.

They were friends for almost two months before he had a chance to see Hutch’s power in action again.

They were sitting at a diner, discussing the baseball game they’d gotten away to see, when the waitress came over, red-eyed and sniffly.

"Take your order?" She jabbed a pencil at her tablet, scowling at them sourly as if daring them to make something of the fact that she’d been crying.

Starsky felt bad for her, wanted to fix whatever was wrong, the way he always felt around females in distress, but Hutch…Hutch seemed to go right into a zone, a zone of discomfort and intense purpose. "I’ll take—uh—home fries, and Starsky, what’ll you take?" He turned with an awkward, stylized movement, and one of his big arms knocked over a glass. Water sheeted over the table, the floor.

"Idiot!" said Starsky, jumping up, his jeans wet, his face heating with fury.

"Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Starsk. Can I—miss, can I have a cloth, please?" He captured her wrist, his touch soft as a bird alighting, looked into her eyes, and then released her. She stood stock still for a moment, as if her world had been jolted.

Starsky found himself almost grinning, rueful and pleased and not able to feel fully irritated any longer. Hutch was fixing it. Somehow, he was fixing it.

"Uh, yes, of-of course, sir." She moved away as if in a daze. The sullen look was gone from her face, and she seemed very inward, very different from the person of a moment ago.

Starsky looked at Hutch across the table and shook his head.

"Sorry, didn’t know it would get on you," whispered Hutch, leaning forward and sopping up some of the liquid on the table with his napkin.

"See how you’d like it if it was on your pants," said Starsky, scrubbing ineffectively at the spreading stain on his jeans.

"Here you go, sir. I’ll do that, don’t worry." She cleaned up the mess efficiently, and gave a towel to Starsky for his jeans. He still felt wet and uncomfortable, but enjoyed seeing the change in her, how peaceful she now acted. That Hutch sure was something, wasn’t he?

When she was gone, and their order taken, and the towels competently cleaned away, Hutch faced him across the little booth, looking embarrassed. He held a hand out, palm up on the table. "Starsk."

Starsky realized he was offering something. It gave him a jolted feeling down his spine: to be no longer an observer, but a participant.

"I can—a little bit," said Hutch. "Because I made you wet, I can…" He didn’t seem to know how to say it.

"You can what?" asked Starsky, fascinated.

Hutch looked more embarrassed still at having to explain. "Just…give me your fingers," he said very quietly. "I’ll take away your discomfort."

Starsky found himself reaching out, as unable to resist the fascinating offer as he’d have been to resist a glass of cold water on a sweltering day. Well, he could’ve resisted: but he didn’t want to.

He touched his fingertips to Hutch’s, just for a second. Warmth seemed to spread, glow from the touch: Hutch’s magic fingers. Starsky felt gently overtaken by a seeping warmth, like dandelion wine, like warm chocolate syrup, the pleasant lassitude of a Sunday morning waking up slowly.

He shivered a little. Hutch drew back his fingers, smiling. He looked happy, and a little proud of himself. "Good?"

Starsky nodded.

He sat in silence, looking down at his plate, looking out the diner’s window. Hutch left him to his private thoughts, his slow enjoyment of the peaceful feeling. It faded, slowly, and by the time their food came, all that remained was mellow warmth, a feeling that everything was calm and good and slow, no hurry whatsoever. If his pants were still wet, it didn’t bother him in the least.

They ate their home fries and BLTs in silence, saying little to one another. Hutch seemed relaxed, without the need to talk, and Starsky sure felt good. They said a couple of words about the game, but they were truncated, shortened sentences. "Good ninth." – "Yeah."

When at last they paid—Hutch paid, and left a handsome tip, more than twice their bill—they made their way over the peaceful, calm parking lot to Starsky’s car.

"You need me to drive?" asked Hutch quietly.

"Might be nice," whispered Starsky.

"Okay."

He gave Hutch his keys, and they took their opposite from normal seats. And Starsky stared out the window and dreamed as they passed the beautiful, beautiful world, the scenery and the greenery and the houses.

He awoke with Hutch carefully shaking his shoulder. "Starsky. Hey." He blinked up into those blue eyes, and Hutch smiled down at him. "Have a good sleep?"

"Mm. Yeah." He stretched, feeling as comfortable and relaxed as if he’d just gone for a long swim. He yawned hugely.

Hutch followed him closely up the stairs to his place. "Why don’t you lay down for a bit—after you change your jeans?"

Starsky gave him a slow look. "You laughing at me?"

"Kind of." Hutch looked lazily cheerful. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and smiling at Starsky.

"Hm. Okay." He turned away and went to find a clean change of clothes. "You get me drunk again, Hutchinson?"

"No, just a—a little buzz." Now he sounded embarrassed again. Why?

"You think that’s wrong? I liked it."

"Maybe I gave you a little too much. You…you sure got mellow."

"I like mellow."

"You usually seem so intensely alert and wound up. Maybe I wanted you to calm down and gave you too much."

"Nah. I’m ready for another hit." Starsky returned carrying dry pants.

Hutch blinked at him, startled by the term. "Hit?"

"You’re my drug of choice from now on, Hutchinson."

Hutch laughed, but he looked red in the face. "Man. I shouldn’t have gotten you hooked."

Starsky headed towards the bathroom to change, and then stopped. "Hutch."

"Yeah?"

"I won’t ask. I won’t make you into a drug. But…thanks, all the same. It was nice."

Hutch bobbed his head. "Welcome." He looked shyly pleased.

Starsky yawned and went to change.

When he woke up from his nap, Hutch was gone. He’d left the keys huddled in the middle of Starsky’s kitchen table, and the end of a ticket stub.

Starsky saw him in class the next day, along with a sour, hung-over Colby. Hutch gave him a smile, and nothing was different. They ate lunch in the cafeteria, not speaking. Starsky wondered if he was getting addicted after all; he kept thinking about Hutch reaching over and giving him that sweet buzz again, that wonderful, floating sensation of calmness. But Hutch just smiled at him and bit into his sandwich, and then asked how he’d done on his test.

"Good." _Well, I wasn’t going to be his friend so I could use him. So he could make me feel good. I’m his friend because I care about him and he’s a great guy._

After lunch they had an obstacle course to run. Starsky did well at such things, and his long-legged friend ran as if he wouldn’t even break a sweat, vaulting over the highest of obstacles as if they meant nothing to him. Starsky had a suddenly sharp mental image of him, a young prince on his family’s own island, a wild explorer, a tough young trouper camping in jungle-y terrain, having hair-raising adventures, every boy’s dream life.

A scream jolted him from his reveries. He turned and started running back automatically. You didn’t leave a fellow officer behind; you just didn’t. Hutch also stopped, turned, and took off running back as well.

They arrived together. A classmate named Schaeffer lay on the ground just past one of the barriers, holding his leg, gritting his teeth. Sweat coated his sickened, pale face.

Starsky went into disaster-mode. "Hang in there, kid." He knelt, grabbed Schaeffer’s hand and gave it a squeeze. "We’ve got you. Hutch—run call an ambulance," he ordered, but Hutch knelt next to him, ignoring Starsky, all his attention on the wounded classmate. He reached a hand out and squeezed Schaeffer’s leg, gently.

"Ahh!"

"Checking to see if it’s broken," said Hutch in a calm voice.

"Hutch, go get an ambulance!" Starsky gave him an ugly look.

"Just a moment. I think you only strained it," he told Schaeffer. Hutch touched the leg a little further on, and then moved it out slightly, straightening the leg.

Schaeffer wasn’t panting so hard now and some of the glazed look had left his face.

Starsky shot Hutch a sharp, disbelieving look.

"Think you can stand?" Hutch gave him a hand up.

"Y-yeah. It’s feeling much better now." He still had tears staining his face from the pain, but he was blinking now, looking surprised and relieved. When he stood and put cautious pressure on his leg, a great smile broke out on his face. "Thanks guys—oh wow, I’m fine. Sorry for scaring you." He grinned into Starsky’s face. "Must think I’m a real baby. Thanks for coming back. I thought I broke something."

"You’ll be fine, kid." Starsky gave him a gruff clap on the back.

"Think you can finish the course?" asked Hutch.

"Y-yeah. Might be a little slow, but it’s better than a hospital visit." He laughed shakily. "Hey, see ya around…Starsky, and…?"

"Hutch."

"Hutch. Gotcha." He cocked a finger and started to jog away.

"Careful over that next jump," called Hutch. He was smiling a little, content and at peace with the world.

Starsky cast him a quick, sharp look.

"What?" said Hutch. He started to jog again, an easy pace, slow.

Starsky jogged with him, and then pulled ahead. "You know what."

He managed to finish the course on time, drenched in sweat, by no means in first place. Hutch pulled ahead and beat him by one place near the end.

Starsky glimpsed Schaeffer speaking to the man at the end and then point out him and Hutch.

The instructor nodded, and carried his clipboard over to them. "You guys stopped to help Schaeffer when he fell?"

"That’s correct, sir." Hutch answered for both of them, not looking at Starsky.

"Well, if you want you can take the course again tomorrow, see if you can improve your times. By the way—good work." He tapped his board. "That’s the kind of thing I like to see in a recruit. Shows you’ll go far—you know what’s important."

They were singled out, praised in front of everyone in their very next class (accident investigation) for helping Schaeffer. Hutch was very modest and low-key, and acted like it was no big deal. Starsky stayed silent and just watched. Of course you went back for a comrade. It was just what you did.

　

　

　


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter five

　

After school, Hutch fell into step with him on the way to his car. "Drop me off?"

"Don’t you need your ride?"

Hutch shrugged. "I’ll pick it up tomorrow. I think you had something you wanted to say to me."

Starsky didn’t answer until they were in the car, driving. His engine hummed, his car throbbed around him, and his anger seemed to fill the car. Hutch waited.

"Are you freaking nuts?" Starsky said at last, shooting Hutch a hard, angry look. "You want to give yourself away? That guy’s leg was broken—and probably pretty bad. You wanna explain yourself? Think that was worth almost getting discovered over?"

"Starsk," said Hutch, very mild-mannered.

"Don’t you ‘Starsk’ me. You want to get found out, then get found out! Just keep me out of it."

"I don’t know what you’re so pissed about. So I helped a guy who’d have ended up in the hospital. So what? If I couldn’t have done it safely, I wouldn’t have. If there’d been a doctor there, or more people, some way for them to know for certain how bad his leg was, then I wouldn’t have. I _couldn’t_ have." He took a deep breath. "I can’t help everyone, I know that. But today I could, and it kept Schaeffer out of the hospital and let him go back to class right away. I don’t see anything wrong with that."

Starsky shot him another ugly look. "Just what can’t you do, huh? First you fix broken hearts, then you fix broken legs."

Hutch gave an amused snort. "It’s easy."

"What?"

"It’s not too hard, physical stuff. A simple little break? Not a big deal. I’ve fixed worse than that."

"How much worse?" demanded Starsky.

Hutch shrugged, suddenly growing evasive. "No big deal," he repeated.

"How much worse, huh? You can cure cancer? You can keep people from dying, maybe? What the hell are you doing here if you could be saving the world?"

"Starsk." Now Hutch looked awkward and apologetic and embarrassed. "You don’t get it, do you? If I went public with my ability, do you honestly think I’d be allowed to just visit every hospital and clear out the sickbeds? Which, by the way, would be impossible—I really can’t fix everything, and if I do too much at once I wear myself out pretty thoroughly."

"You ‘wear yourself out.’ You could be saving lives, and you’re worried about wearing yourself out?"

Hutch looked confused and frustrated. "I can’t explain it right. It’s…like it drains me. A lot. A little bit once in a while is fine, but if I cure someone with something really bad, I get all shaky and have to sleep for a few days straight. I’m not…I’m really not magic. It takes something out of me. Did you see how I couldn’t run very fast until I got my strength back towards the end?"

Starsky hadn’t known that, had thought Hutch was toying with him by running more slowly till the end. He shook his head, less angry now, but still not understanding. "Why wouldn’t people let you fix them?"

"Number one, I’d be a freak. They’d lock me up or study me." His voice sharpened. "Don’t tell me they wouldn’t, Starsky. Then my family would have to rescue me. It happened to my great-grandfather; he had a gift not unlike mine. Don’t tell me it wouldn’t happen the same way today. No matter how much people have changed, they haven’t grown that much. If anything, the government is less trustful these days.

"And number two, if they did let me do my own thing and I could only heal a few people—a small number—what do you think that would be like, huh? People getting their hopes up, mobbing me, and—and—oh, think about it! Only rich people, huh? Or famous people?" He gave Starsky an indignant look. "And everyone else is looking to me when they should be looking to doctors or looking after themselves, or… I don’t know. It just sounds terrible," he finished, sounding utterly weary.

"Okay, I think I get it," mumbled Starsky. "But what I don’t get is why didn’t you tell me, huh? Why didn’t you tell me you could fix people like that?"

Hutch glanced at him. "Does it make a difference?"

"Yeah, it makes a difference!"

"Oh."

"It means I’m not imagining this whole thing in my head." He tapped his forehead. "It means you’re real, not just—just something I made up."

Hutch’s mouth twitched into a sympathetic smile. "Did you think you were going crazy?"

"Sometimes."

"Sorry."

"Just…you act so normal sometimes, you know? And then not normal, and…" He shrugged. "Everything’s different. It’s confusing as hell. You’re…not normal." He glanced over at Hutch to see the blond swallow painfully. "Aw, hell, I didn’t mean it like that!"

"I know, I’m not normal. But I didn’t think you looked at me like a freak."

"I don’t. Hutch! I don’t. I just meant…"

"Don’t worry about it." Hutch waved a hand, as if it meant nothing to him. "I’m not ordinary. I get it."

"Hutch." He drove one-handed and brought his right down to rest on Hutch’s thigh, rubbed it through his corduroy trousers. "Don’t do that to yourself. I didn’t mean anything like that. I just meant it’s different. It’s new to me, okay? So it takes some getting used to. You’re a great guy, a real special guy, you know that, right?"

"Sure." He moved Starsky’s hand. Gently, but he moved it.

"Hey," said Starsky sternly. "I want you to do that thing. Do it to yourself, take away your pain. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I don’t want you feelin’ bad. C’mon, touch your arm or whatever you gotta do."

Hutch sent him a look. "Don’t you know it doesn’t work on me?"

Starsky gaped.

He drove a few moments in stunned silence. The blond man scrunched on his side of the car hurtingly. Sharply, Starsky turned the wheel. He pulled the car over and parked alongside the road. "Give me your hand."

"What are you doing?" asked Hutch.

"Give me your hand." He reached over and took one of the long-fingered, big hands. They were hairless on the back. He held it in his own, and stroked his hand over the back. "Now I didn’t mean to hurt you. You are not a freak, you’re my friend."

He turned Hutch’s hand over and rubbed the palm with his thumb, firmly, like Hutch had a muscle ache and he was going to knead out the pain. Hutch stayed very still; something about him seemed very surprised.

"Any better?" asked Starsky quietly after a few moments.

"Yeah," said Hutch. "But I don’t understand." He drew his hand away at last, from Starsky’s last pat. "You’re not Family." He stared at Starsky.

"No. I’m a friend." He smiled at Hutch and pulled back onto the road.

* * * *

Once again, they went back to a period of not talking about it; ignoring Hutch’s special powers. Neither he nor Starsky tried to comfort the other. They talked and hung out, but in a roundabout way, communicating through shortened sentences, or a look or jerk of the head.

They studied together, or got a bite to eat or a drink, either together or with a group of friends. Somehow it always felt as if they were in collusion, or something like collusion; no matter where they went, or how far apart they were, how many people were there, Starsky always knew where Hutch was. It was as if he were keeping an eye on him subconsciously; he was just aware of where he was. Something in him had grown more protective of Hutch, too. He got stern with Hutch once in a while when he thought Hutch was pushing himself too hard. He used to think Hutch was immortal. Now he didn’t.

Hutch knocked on Starsky’s door one Sunday morning, looking embarrassed and shy. "Will you drive me somewhere, Starsk?"

"Why?" Starsky looked him up and down. "You’re fit, and more awake than me. Why not drive yourself?" He’d only just crawled out of bed and still hadn’t finished his coffee. He hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas yet.

"Um, well…" Hutch gnawed his lip. "C’n I come in?"

Starsky held the door open, and slurped his coffee.

"Thanks. Well..." Hutch pulled himself up to sit on the counter. The back of his shoes thunked on the wooden door of the kitchen counter.

"Well what?" Starsky put down his coffee and held up the pot, offering it to Hutch. The blond man waved a hand and shook his head. "I wanted to, to visit the hospital. Remember you said, I should heal people? Well, sometimes I do. I take a day and just…go visiting." He seemed embarrassed and looked down. "But, um, it would be better if someone drove me, in—in case I get too tired." He thumped his feet back once more against the wood—Starsky could swear he heard it crack, the big oaf—and then hopped off, landed on his big, heavily-shoed feet. "What’ll it be? Drive me?"

"Of course," said Starsky. "Let me get changed."

"Take your time. It’s not like I’m in a hurry or anything." Hutch gently took Starsky’s wrist and looked at his wristwatch, then raised his eyebrows.

Starsky made a face at him. He shoved his coffee cup into Hutch’s hand and hurried away to get changed, more excited than he wanted to admit to get to see more of his friend’s power in action.

When he returned, in yesterday’s jeans and a clean(ish) T-shirt, Hutch raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. He pushed the coffee cup back into Starsky’s hands. Starsky stared down into it. "What? You didn’t finish it?"

"It’s a new cup, bozo." Hutch thumped him on the arm and strode towards the door.

Starsky slurped coffee, made a face, and followed. "You seem nervous. Are you nervous?" He caught up to his buddy.

"No," said Hutch shortly.

"Oh, well, as long as you’re not nervous." He poked Hutch’s elbow teasingly.

"I’m not!" Hutch laughed, jerking his elbow free.

On the drive, Hutch didn’t say much. He kept staring out the window, looking nervous and inward drawn. Starsky reached over and fiddled with the radio.

Hutch turned to him. "Why are _you_ nervous?" He raised his pale brows, looking rather surprised.

"Oh, I don’t know. Visions of seeing you being hauled away for malpractice." Starsky tossed the phrase off sarcastically, and then wished he hadn’t. Hutch seemed to go quieter still. "Well, you won’t be. Just let me know what kind of interference you need me to run. I’ve never done this before, you know."

"Okay." Hutch’s voice was very quiet. He drummed his fingers on the door.

When they arrived, Hutch headed towards the visitor’s entrance, and asked for the room of a Bob Johnson. He acted surprised when told no one named that had checked in. "I’ll wait. I’m sure it’s a mix-up."

The busy nurses were bored and annoyed enough by him that they began to ignore him. He grew impatient, crossed his arms, stood up and paced. And when he disappeared a few minutes later, no one noticed.

Starsky, admiring his technique, followed soon afterwards. He caught up with the blond in the hall.

"You’re here?" Hutch glanced at him. "Two will attract more attention than one. Think of an excuse for being here!" He paced the hall with determination, and there was a furrow on his brow, as if he sensed pain everywhere. But he had a destination; he seemed to know where he was going.

Oh. Here. The children’s wing.

Hutch put on a soft smile, strode through the door, and picked up a book. "Reading time?" he asked, and sure enough, several children brightened up.

Between them (and with Starsky’s help), wheelchairs and beds were pushed nearer; and Hutch did the voices. Starsky found himself equally surprised and charmed by this version of Hutch. He had to laugh into his sleeve when Hutch did the squeaky princess voice, and his heart swelled with pride when Hutch, very circumspectly, very carefully, passed the book to a little bald-headed girl so she could look at the pictures. His hand very gently and briefly touched hers in the handing over process.

The way the children crowded round and wanted to sit next to him, Starsky was pretty sure they each touched him at least once, many more than once. They really seemed to take to him, the big awkward blond guy with his awkward big feet, and his very very big heart.

He’d just finished the story when the door opened. A nurse gave Hutch and Starsky a very speaking look, and motioned for them to leave.

"All right, kids, time for us to go!" Smiles all round, and a few handshakes and pats on the shoulder. One little girl threw her arms around the big blond, and he grinned awkwardly and patted her back. Then they were out of that sweet, sad room and facing the wrath of the nurse.

"You’re not on the list," she said. "If you want to volunteer, you need to be on the list and pass the background check."

"There’s a list?" said Hutch, looking clueless and surprised.

"Oh, that should be no problem," said Starsky, stepping forward with his most charming smile. "He’s training to be a cop, you know." He patted Hutch’s arm. "You write him down for Sunday afternoons, every other. Right, Hutch?"

By the time they finished with the nurse, there was no way they were getting to any other part of the hospital (she escorted them securely outside), and Starsky was beginning to realize that might be for the best; Hutch was looking distinctly pale and weak around the edges. He had to stop and lean against the car before getting in.

Starsky ran around the car quickly to help him, but Hutch held up a hand. "I’m fine. Just give me a minute." Starsky waited worriedly, but Hutch made it on his own, moving as slow and weak as an old man. Starsky got in and reached over to help him with his seatbelt. Then he captured one of Hutch’s hands and gave it a rub between his hands.

"Hungry?"

Hutch nodded, before closing his eyes and leaning back against the headrest.

Starsky released his hand. "Then let’s get something to eat." He revved the engine, took Hutch to the nicest little diner he knew, and watched in some amusement while Hutch ordered almost everything on the menu. He even sucked a milkshake dry: ravenous Hutch. Starsky rather enjoyed seeing him with this much appetite; the blond often didn’t seem to care one way or another about food.

When Hutch was finally sated enough to look up without hunger or extreme exhaustion in his eyes, Starsky smiled at him. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Hutch eyed him warily and reached for his milkshake, tried the straw again. Nothing. He set it aside.

"Waitress!" Starsky held up a hand. "’Nother round on the milkshakes."

"Starsk," said Hutch, embarrassed.

"Strawberry." Starsky turned to give the waitress his best smile. She returned it with a pretty good one of her own.

"Vanilla," said Hutch.

"Yeah, you kinda are." Starsky turned a smile on him. The waitress sashayed away. Starsky turned back to his partner in crime and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "So I was only an observer. Tell me from the inside. What happened? Did you fix all those kids?"

Hutch’s smile died, and he shook his head. "I—couldn’t. They all had serious things going on. You know…‘serious.’ He dropped his voice down lower. Pain filled his eyes as he fiddled with a napkin, wiping up an imaginary spill. "I…just did what I could. Helped a little. Helped with pain." He shrugged. "Tried to speed the healing, or slow the growth of…you know."

"Cancer."

Hutch nodded. He seemed to be falling into a blue funk.

"Hey." Starsky reached across and stilled the restless hand moving the napkin. "You did a great thing. Don’t feel like that about it."

Hutch snorted. "I did a great thing? Starsk, they’ve got to _live_ with it, every hour of every day. That’s their life. I come in to read a story and that makes everything better?"

"Not everything. Something." He smiled at Hutch, this guy who couldn’t see the forest for the trees. "And maybe, just maybe, one of them will live because of you, and wouldn’t have without you."

"So you’re saying I should’ve picked…picked one and given her all my strength?" Blue eyes flashed indignant.

"Maybe next time, if you decide to. But no, I mean…you know what I mean. You helped. Maybe you helped more than you know, you big lug." He looked up and smiled at the waitress. "Thank you. Now drink that, moron, and quit seeing the dark side of everything!"

Hutch slurped obediently on his milkshake. It made a rime around his mouth, but Starsky didn’t want to distract him by mentioning it. "That’s almost the worst of it, Starsk." He reached over a spoon and tasted some of Starsky’s shake, made a face, and went back to his vanilla. He folded his hands around the cold glass. "I always get really depressed after I do something like this. Even once I get my energy back, it can take a long time before the world stops looking truly grim to me. I could never be a doctor, you know."

"You," said Starsky, "are going to be a cop. The best damn cop in the world."

"Don’t lay that kind of pressure on me."

"Well, maybe the second best. Come to think of it, you’ve got to compete with me." He winked, and Hutch laughed aloud.

　

　

　


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

　

　

When Starsky drove him home, Hutch was yawning all the way. But he made out of the car under his own power, and waved off Starsky’s offer of help.

"Take care of yourself."

"I’ll be fine. Just need some sleep." Hutch tried to swallow another yawn, failed, and waved goodbye vaguely. "See you Monday."

Starsky hesitated a moment, then saw Hutch stumble a little sideways and took off after him up the stairs. "Hey. Lean on me, bud. You’re all right." He slung an arm around him and helped him into the apartment. Hutch hesitated and then leaned on him.

Once inside, Starsky hesitated. "Where do you wanna go?"

"Couch."

He helped the blond towards the couch and plopped him there.

"Ugh." Hutch leaned back, pain furrowing his brow, his eyes closed, head against the back of the couch.

It was a nice couch, a leather one. They usually studied at this apartment, because Hutch had more room and nicer furnishings. He never made a big deal about it, but Starsky had always secretly wished he had a rich family to pay for a nice apartment for him, too. That thought felt petty now.

Starsky stood back and regarded Hutch, brow furrowing. "Don’t you want to lie down?" He gestured to the length of leather.

"In a minute." Hutch lifted a hand a few inches, then let it plop down again. "Gotta get up my strength to get my shoes off, stand up, and get changed."

"You don’t have to get changed. Sleep in your clothes." He knelt in front of his friend and pried his big shoes off his big feet. He dragged the blond from his couch—groaning—and half steered, half supported him to his bed, got him in and the sheets pulled over him.

He hesitated, then smoothed his hair back off Hutch’s forehead, and gave him a swat on the shoulder. "Now you get some sleep, and don’t overdo it so much next time."

"’Kay. Starsk." His hand came out and loose fingers wrapped around Starsky’s wrist. He looked up bleary and questioning. "What’d I ever do to deserve you in my life?"

Starsky felt his eyes crinkle up in a smile. He gave Hutch a swat on the arm. "Just lucky, I guess." He sort of hoped Hutch wouldn’t remember and be embarrassed by this tomorrow. On the other hand, he felt warm inside from the words, wanted to keep them close.

Hutch’s eyelids were drooping again, but he smiled faintly, and gave a faint nod. "Thanksh, Starsk," he mumbled, rubbing his thumb along the inside of Starsky’s wrist once, lightly.

Starsky grew very still, and then disentangled his hand from Hutch’s. "Go on, Hutch. Don’t waste your energy now. Go to sleep." He gave Hutch another pat, then got out of there, trying not to give in to the strange, melancholy buzz Hutchinson had given him. It made him feel sleepy, and somehow like crying. He wrapped his arm around himself, and leaned his chin on his chest for a moment, feeling small and strange, and wishing Hutch hadn’t tried to thank him when he was feeling so tired and odd.

* * * *

Hutchinson was still tired on Monday, and he went to Handling Emotional Situations class with dark circles under his eyes, looking hung-over and sleep deprived even though he’d slept for twelve hours straight, and then some more.

Colby teased him about partying too hard ( _Colby_!), and Starsky felt unreasonably defensive of his friend. Then again, as he thought about it further, he realized he’d made the same error previously when he’d seen Hutch (and only Hutch), looking hung-over after a weekend; he’d simply assumed the big blond was partying with other friends, not his fellow students.

Now he felt like a heel. Hutch had been sacrificing himself all along…

Starsky wondered if it was too late to convince Hutch he shouldn’t volunteer again for a while. Fortunately, he’d managed to trade for a seat next to his sleepy buddy and could nudge him awake whenever he started to drift off, his head beginning to droop towards a pillowed posture on his arms.

But by lunch he was looking far more like himself. He ate well, and he even held up his end of the conversation (the existence of UFOs).

Hutch said that of course they existed, unidentified flying objects—things that hadn’t been reliably identified. Starsky said no, no, that was _not_ what he meant. He meant extraterrestrial visitors. And then Hutch gave him a pointed look and crunched a French fry with rather more force than necessary.

Starsky stared at him, not getting it: and then he did. "I didn’t mean you, Hutch."

"Ix-nay on the alking-tay," said Hutch.

He was a little extra sleepy still by the time evening rolled around, and he didn’t want to go bowling. But by Tuesday he was his usual self again, energetic enough to beat Starsky in a run for the Academy, and full of himself enough to laugh at jokes he liked and make ones of his own.

* * * *

As Starsky got to know him better, he found Hutch a reassuring guy to be around and talk to. He liked the fact that Hutch trusted him enough to confide things of his own. Hutchinson continued to act calm and mellow, and very laid back and undemonstrative, but sometimes he smiled, and it made Starsky feel downright proud to be the one to put that smile on his face. As many friends and acquaintances as Hutch seemed to have, he did not seem to have many close friends, and there were few, if any, other people he confided in.

Hutch was easy to like, easy to trust. The trust between them seemed to cut out the need for jockeying for position, for constant competition between them, and contests and toughness.

Though intensely private, when he opened up to someone, Hutch was breathtakingly honest. There was a quietness about him, a humility, and sometimes, a lost look, as though there was so much he still didn’t understand. It made Starsky feel protective of him, want to keep anyone from taking advantage of his honest personality.

Most of the time, Starsky called his new friend Hutch: a cool, crisp name that suited him, quietly strong.

Hutch occasionally called him Dave and once in a while Starsky, but most of the time he was Starsk. Nobody else called him Starsk.

By the second Sunday, when it was next his day to volunteer to read to children, Starsky and Hutch were getting along well enough that it was an of-course that Starsky drove, and stayed with him until he was well-fed and safely asleep. He made sure the big guy was safely tucked in before easing from the apartment and locking up.

They didn’t talk about Hutch’s power, and over time Starsky even sometimes nearly forgot about it. Then a little thing would bring it back: an incident like the distressed waitress, where someone around Hutch would mysteriously get better.

* * * *

One night, the bowling alley was particularly crowded. Starsky had to shoulder his way through just to get them a pitcher of soda. The balls cracked and rolled, pins fell, the hubbub boomed over the background music. When he got back to Hutch’s side, he found the blond man massaging a line between his temples, peering distractedly at his seven/ten split.

Recognizing misery and pain in his expression, Starsky caught his elbow. "You okay? You need to leave?"

Hutch nodded. They looked at each other a moment, assessing. Hutch looked apologetic yet grateful. Then Starsky turned, put down the pitcher of soda, and grabbed his jacket. They paid for their partial games without a word, and Starsky drove Hutch home. Hutch continued massaging his pale temples on the drive.

"It wasn’t the noise, was it?" guessed Starsky.

Hutch shook his head. "Too many people. Too many emotions. I couldn’t help even half the people who were hurting there tonight."

After that Starsky did his best to help Hutch avoid crowds, or find him an excuse to leave if they found themselves trapped.

Hutch helped him with homework, and they practiced their running together, and sometimes even swam together on Saturdays. But of the physical things they did together, he liked best playing basketball. In the first place, Hutch was so tall he had an advantage right there; and Starsky had always been good at the sport, so they made a killer team, and often won their two-on-two games.

In the second place, when he and Hutch weren’t on the same team, it allowed him to get up in Hutch’s face and block him roughly, even tackle-grab him in not-quite-legal moves. Playful roughhousing with Hutch was fun, gave him an exuberant outlet for both his affection and his occasional exasperation.

They continued volunteering. Starsky ended up signing up as well, and while he found it one of the most rewarding things he’d done so far in his life (helping sick kids smile and laugh meant something to him, in a very real, very deep way), he couldn’t help worrying that Hutch was overdoing it. Every time, Hutch said he wouldn’t use up too much of his strength, but every time he came away pale and exhausted, drained and depressed.

One day he overdid it far, far too much.

Starsky had been busy telling silly jokes and making faces for some of the kids, and he hadn’t kept as good of an eye on Hutch as he usually tried to do. When he saw how pale and tired Hutch was on the way out, he gave him a sharp look.

"Need my elbow?"

"Just…gimmee…a second." Hutch paused to lean against the wall on the way out of the hall. He tried to smile and nod at a passing nurse.

She did a double take. "Is he all right?"

"Just tired, ma’am. I’ll get him home." He took Hutch’s elbow and quietly told him off as he helped him to his car.

("What do you think you’re doing, huh? Apparently you want to make yourself sick. Get in there!")

Hutch was too tired to even argue. "Starsk, enough," was all he managed. And then he shut up and leaned his head back, breathing through his mouth, eyes closed, as Starsky drove straight home, too worried and scared to even stop at a diner.

Starsky had to halfway carry him up the stairs to his apartment. Even so, Hutch stumbled once and went down to his knees, hard, on the stone steps. Breathing raggedly through his mouth, he didn’t even try to get up immediately.

_Oh, man. He’s usually stronger than me. This can’t be happening!_

Starsky hauled him up, scolding and comforting all at once, and got him deposited in bed. He pulled off Hutch’s shoes, helped him get under the covers, and went to find something for him to eat, threatening him with dire punishments unless he stayed put.

He did. Hutch stayed put so well that Starsky could barely shake him awake, and then had to beg him to eat something. Hutch was non-responsive and barely ate a single square of chocolate before falling back to sleep.

He slept soundly, like a dead man, for the next twelve hours, waking only once to go to the bathroom. And then Starsky had to help him walk because he was clumsy and would’ve fallen.

He was torn between anger and fear, but he didn’t dare leave Hutchinson alone. Starsky made him drink water and tried to get him to eat something, but Hutch once again fell asleep the moment he returned to bed.

Hutch was restless through the night, sometimes tossing, and around 2 a.m. he woke Starsky from his sleep on the leather couch by a shout. Torn between anger and terror, Starsky ran to him. There lay Hutch, sweat-soaked, wild-eyed, and weak as a kitten.

"Shh." All Starsky’s angry words fled. He sat on the edge of the bed, comforted and soothed his friend, sitting him up and holding him, letting him keep a weak grip on Starsky’s arm, talking to him quietly.

The blond guy was trembling at first, and seemed incoherent about his dream—"They died—they all died—"—but he soon calmed down, curled on his side and lay still.

Starsky felt a curious mixture of exasperation, protectiveness, and fondness. He had never been so thoroughly responsible for another person before. Even for one night, this was a big deal. It made some things seem more important, and others less so. Like arguments they’d had. What did that matter now, when Hutch was depending on him?

When he finally thought Hutch was asleep, he released his arm, eased to his feet, and started to leave the room. But he kept half an ear cocked, and sure enough, Hutch was calling for him again shortly, calling him by name. As soon as he got back there, Hutch settled down again, keeping a firm grip on his sleeve and falling back to sleep.

Starsky settled down beside him awkwardly, sighing inwardly, and patted Hutch’s side. "You’re all right, big guy."

He woke up with bad morning breath feeling more tired than he had in ages, and found Hutch flushed and sick-looking beside him. When he tried to shake him awake, Hutch wouldn’t waken.

Pacing, Starsky waffled between calling the hospital and trying to find his grandmother’s number. But the hospital might not know what to do, and they certainly wouldn’t understand Hutch. Starsky tore apart the apartment, and finally found the little black book with its (very few) numbers, and the one labeled "Father." He dialed the number.

"Mr. Hutchinson?"

Starsky waited impatiently, bouncing on the balls of his feet and glancing worriedly towards the bedroom every few seconds.

"Hey! Mr. Hutchinson!" he barked, fear making him rude.

"Yes? Who is this?" A cool voice, very cool indeed. It had a southern accent stronger than Hutch’s, and harder.

"My name’s not important. Your son it having some kind of reaction. He gave too much energy to some sick little kids, and now he’s slept for eighteen hours and won’t wake up. He’s real pale and I don’t know what to do for him. What should I do?"

There was dead silence on the other end of the phone.

"Well?!" yelled Starsky. "Tell me or I’ll call the ambulance and let them handle it!"

"There is some… He should have medicine. Check his desk drawer, or if he has a safe cabinet. A small brown bottle, labeled in Latin. Read it off to me when you find it."

Starsky again tore the house apart, looking.

"Here." He stumbled over a footstool and swore, and grabbed the phone, panting. He read the label in what was no doubt a parody of the proper pronunciation, but the man didn’t correct him, merely told him that was the correct medicine.

"Put ten drops in a small glass of water, and get him to drink as much of it as you can. Repeat the process every half hour until color returns to his cheeks. I’ll be waiting by the phone. Give me your number and address, and then go to him."

Starsky obeyed.

　

　

　

　


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

　

It seemed to take hours of bullying and cajoling the sleeping man, but eventually, Hutch drank. He drank more easily a half hour later, and by the third dose, color was seeping back into his lips and cheeks, and he opened his glazed blue eyes for a few moments and recognized Starsky.

"Starsk," he croaked, and closed weak fingers around Starsky’s wrist.

"Yeah, buddy. It’s me." He stroked back sweaty blond strands of hair, too grateful to even be angry. "Gave us quite a scare, Blintz." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Us?" Hutch closed his eyes, drifting back towards sleep.

"Me and your dad."

"Dad? Dad’s here?" He tried to open his eyes again, but couldn’t and yawned instead.

"Nah. I just had to call him. You should’ve told me about your medicines."

Hutch was snoring.

Starsky went back to the phone and called Mr. Hutchinson with the good news. "He’s starting to pick up. Color’s coming back and he was able to say a few words. I think he’s gonna be all right. Should I keep giving him the stuff every half hour?"

"Yes. Until he can sit up on his own. Then feed him a small meal as soon as possible, and make him stay in bed for the next twenty-four hours. By the way, who are you?"

Starsky opened his mouth to answer. Then found he didn’t want to. "Look, don’t worry about that. I’m your son’s friend, and I can’t hurt him. His grandma fixed that. I can’t hurt your Family, either. I know some stuff, but not much, and I’m just concerned about Ken."

Hutch’s dad was silent a moment. "How did you get this number?"

"I found it in his things. Look, I’ll tell him to call you when he’s better. For now, I gotta go." He hung up before Mr. Hutchinson seemed able to formulate a reply.

When Hutch was well enough to sit up and crunch dry toast, getting crumbs on the bed, they talked a little more about what happened. "I’m sorry, Starsk. I didn’t mean to scare you like that." His eyes were very blue this morning, as if he were seeing the world afresh after a long absence. Which, of course, he was.

"You bet your ass you scared me." Starsky reached over gave him a shove on the arm. Hutch tolerated the affection with the faintest of embarrassed smiles. Then Starsky gave him a swat on the side. "So what happened, huh?"

He shrugged. "Um, well, obviously I overdid it. I was worried about Brigit. She…she wasn’t doing well, Starsk. I knew I could get sick, but it didn’t seem to matter at the time. I mean, she’s such a little kid. Even using up a whole lot of energy shouldn’t have drained me so much. And I didn’t want her to die."

"Yeah? Well I don’t want you to die, so watch yourself next time. I mean it." He pointed a finger at Hutch.

Hutch tilted one eyebrow as if halfway willing to accept the challenge and halfway mocking it. That must mean he was feeling better. Starsky put the finger down. "Hey, I promised your dad you’d call him."

"Wh-what!?" Hutch stopped with the last bite of toast halfway to his mouth. He looked aghast.

"I told your dad you’d call him. What’s so hard to understand about that?"

Hutch stared at him as if he’d gone crazy. "You called my dad. Why not Grandma?"

"I couldn’t find her number, genius. And for the record, if you ever leave me in the dark like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll kick your ass if you live through it!"

Placating hands rose, but Hutch continued to complain about people scaring his father, contacting his father unnecessarily, and making promises on his behalf.

Starsky went out to buy some more food, and when he got back Hutch was just hanging up the phone. His face looked paler and tighter, and Starsky went to him quickly, asking what was wrong. Hutch just shook his head, looking grim, and laid back down again. He fell to sleep quickly, not even wanting any French fries.

Hutch kicked up a fuss about staying in bed for twenty-four hours, but only a small fuss. He didn’t seem to have the energy to be his usual stubborn self. And he’d seemed depressed ever since his phone call, more depressed than could be explained by just his recovery. Starsky asked him about it, but he just shook his head, dismissed it, and wouldn’t discuss it.

When he’d stayed in bed the prescribed amount of time, nothing would keep him there longer, and he came back to his classes, pale and drained, looking as if he’d lost ten pounds in just a couple of days. He was even quieter than usual.

And the next day he didn’t show up at all. Starsky started to worry before an hour was out, and he skipped the next class (Report Writing) to go check on Hutch. Sure enough, he found him huddled in his bed, covers pulled up to his head.

"Now Hutch." He dragged the covers back. "You shouldn’t have pushed yourself so hard yesterday if—"

He stopped.

Hutch wasn’t sleeping or even halfway asleep. His face was red and wet. As he saw Starsky looking, he sniffed and wiped at his face with the back of his hand, blinking hard. "Go ‘way, Starsk. I don’t want to see anyone."

"Well you’re gonna. What happened? What’s the matter? Is it your dad?"

Hutch shook his head and sniffed again, sitting up enough to face Starsky. He dragged a hand back over his head, to get the hair out of his eyes. "I c-called the hospital. I’ve been worried about Brigit, if—if what I did was enough."

"And?"

"They—they told me…" He bit his lip, and his eyes were watering again.

Starsky gripped his arm, hard, tried not to shout. "What’d they tell you?"

"She—she lived. Laura died." He faced Starsky with the most tragic look on his face. "Starsk, Brigit had a—a miraculous recovery. C-complete remission. And while I saved her life, I m-missed the signs…Laura took a turn for the worse. I…I let little Laura…" He swallowed hard, and looked up at the ceiling, his eyes blank and pain-filled. "It’s my fault. If I had realized…I should’ve…"

"Screw you, Hutchinson!"

Hutch looked at him, blinking, shocked.

Starsky jumped up and had begun to shout. "You’ve got no clue, do you? You scare me half to death, and your father, just about kill yourself—and now you saved a little girl’s life, and even that don’t make you happy? That’s not enough? What will be enough, huh? Maybe when we’re piling dirt on your grave, you’ll be happy! I bet you can kill yourself if you try hard enough!"

Hutch’s eyes filled with wetness. "Starsk—you don’t u-understand."

"I understand well enough! And I’ll bet your father understands too and that’s what he was telling you off about over the phone!"

Hutch bit his lip. "Starsk—"

"Shut up!"

He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. He put a hand to his head; he was shaking a little. Did Hutch really want to kill himself? Or was he just the most short-sighted, thinks-he’s-immortal guy around? He moved to the refrigerator, ripped out a fresh carton of orange juice and poured a glass.

He took it in to Hutch. "Here. At least drink something if you’re going to cry your eyes out. You’ll get dehydrated." He stood watch judgmentally while Hutch meekly drank.

Hutch put the glass down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Starsk, that’s not what my dad said." He spoke calmly now; perhaps yelling at him really had helped. Starsky hadn’t planned it. He’d just freaked out. But if it jolted Hutch out of the bad place he’d been going…

"What’d he say?" he asked, curious in spite of himself, forgetting he was still supposed to be angry.

Hutch gulped. "He wanted me to go home. He said I wasn’t fit for surviving on my own." Hutch looked haggard and sad at the thought.

"Well." Starsky reached down, fumbled for Hutch’s arm and gave it a squeeze, to make the next words easier. "Maybe he’s right."

"Wh-what?!" Hutch looked up at him, fiery indignation in his eyes. "You WANT me to go?!"

"Well, no. But if that’s the only way you’ll take care of yourself—not spend too much energy trying to help other people, and ending up hurting yourself—then yeah, I think you should." He nodded once, to give it strength. It was hard to say, but he had to seem like he really meant it: because he did, of course. "I don’t want you to die."

Hutch stared at him hard, and then gave his hand a squeeze and sank back. "I won’t. I’ll take better care of myself. I—I’ll listen to you, about saving energy. I promise."

Starsky searched his gaze, not pulling any punches, staring at him hard. "You mean it?"

"I just promised, didn’t I?" Hutch gave him the hint of a scowl, and then swiped a hand under his nose and sniffed again. "Oh, Starsk. She was just a little kid…!"

"No guilt. You helped her and the rest of ‘em as much as you could. And you not going to be well enough to go back next Sunday, so don’t even think about it."

"But—"

"No ‘buts’ or I’ll call your dad!"

"Starsk." Hutch gave him a very disapproving frown—but there were no more ‘buts.’

Hutch pulled himself together enough to attend the rest of his classes, egged on by Starsky and practically dragged from his room. It would do neither of them good to miss further classes. And he didn’t want the big guy to sit around and brood.

He kept a close eye on Hutch after that, and absolutely forbade him to go to the little girl’s funeral.

"I know it’s not fair, Hutch, and I ain’t your boss. But you know what’ll happen if you go. You’ll blame yourself and fall into a deep funk…"

"Starsk." Hutch gave him a deep, dark frown, very disapproving. "Death is part of life, and I ought to be there. So should you." He poked him in the knee.

Starsky swatted his finger away. "Why? Because we read to her sometimes?" Starsky hated funerals, had even before his father died. "I’m not going."

"I’m disappointed in you."

Starsky stuck his tongue out. He might’ve dealt with some things in his life (mainly because of Hutch), but he wasn’t ready to deal with funerals.

* * * *

"You still have time to get your suit on."

"I’m not wearing a suit, and I ain’t going." Starsky looked up and gave him a glower, from where he was lying stomach-down on Hutch’s couch, his sneakers kicked together in the air, reading a textbook.

Hutch adjusted a tie and shrugged. "Your loss."

"You just better come home in one piece."

"If you came along…"

"I’m not going to no funeral!"

Finally Hutch shrugged and went without him—but not without sending back one pitiful glance, as if to see if Starsky wouldn’t change his mind and go along. Starsky pretended to be deeply immersed in his reading and ignored it.

A few minutes later he got up, sighed, and puttered around his apartment. It felt empty and dull. Not that he had to have Hutch around all the time, but somehow he’d gotten used to spending the weekends with him, especially what with Hutch’s recovery and all.

Well, he supposed he’d better do the rest of his homework.

He had barely gotten to the pencil-tapping stage when someone knocked at the door. He jumped up with alacrity and ran to get it—remembering to slow down first, and not look so desperate. Just because he wanted an excuse to get out of homework didn’t mean he should let on…

　

　

　

　


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

　

　

At the door, three students met him, stared at him. "You’re Starsky?" said a big brute with curled blond hair and massive shoulders, both taller and wider than Hutch, but somehow like him, in the face. His accent was stronger than Hutch’s, but much the same. The second was a much shorter boy wearing pinkish sunglasses, his brown hair neatly combed, a haughty look on his face. The third was a slender, mousy girl with thin brown hair that reached nearly to her waist.

"Yeah," said Starsky, dragging the word out. He found himself tensing for some reason, but he didn’t know why. Something about the three—all of them together like this—set alarm bells off in his head. Maybe it was because even the ones who looked like they should be somewhat subdued…strange-looking young people showing up on a stranger’s doorstep…looked instead as though they’d never had more confidence in their lives.

The shorter boy jerked his head. He couldn’t be as young as he looked, because he was growing a pencil thin moustache. "Then come on. You’re with us." He had one hand in his pocket and looked as though he’d never felt more casually calm and in charge in his life.

Starsky found himself following the three.

"You’re Family, aren’t you?" he asked, his heart starting to pound exaggeratedly.

"Shut up," said the boy.

Starsky shut up. Found he couldn’t talk, couldn’t make a squeak.

These were the ones. These were the people he had thought Hutch was: the ones who would hurt people callously—the ones who could take over the world, if they could be bothered.

* * * *

They took him out back, not speaking, all in concert and all together. They didn’t even look back to see if he was following. Actually, the two smaller people each looked back once, but it seemed more a gloating kind of look, as if to say "Is that all he is?"

The hulking guy turned around at the large oak tree. They all four stood under its shady protection. The leaves rustled overhead, and Starsky had a sudden sharp, mental image of himself, dangling from a rope tied to one branch. If this wasn’t to be a lynching, it certainly felt like it.

Facing him, the brown-haired girl tittered, bringing a hand to her face and smirking. She stared at him with a mocking look, malicious, as if she could bore into his skull with her gaze.

An image started in his brain, a particularly intense living nightmare of imagination. Fire, burning, catching, taking off wildly, burning all over him— He gave a silent scream and turned away, beating at his clothes, at his arms and hair. He couldn’t make a sound, just writhed as if all the bees in the world were after him.

From somewhere far away, someone laughed, and someone else said, "Stop that, Mara. He’s no good to us like that. He has to pay attention."

The fire stopped, the burning crackle was gone, and Starsky stood in front of them trembling all over, breathing through his mouth. The fire had stopped, and he could see them again, instead of a living nightmare. Not that they were much better.

The two smaller people were smirking with abandon. Even the bigger guy was not without a hint of a smirk, as if he found it funny, too, but was trying not to let himself be distracted by humor right now. He leaned back against the tree and crossed his big arms—full of muscle, full of confidence. He was completely in control of the situation and knew it.

"You’re Ken’s friend." It wasn’t a question. "I want to hear from the horse’s mouth just how much power you have over him. Or vice versa."

Starsky opened his mouth. He couldn’t speak.

The big guy turned to the little guy, gestured. "Fix him, Max."

Max frowned. "Talk," he said, and suddenly Starsky was babbling.

"He’s my friend. I look after him, he looks after me. I nursed him back to health. He fixed me, fixed how I felt about my dad. He loves me. I love him, too. I’d do anything for him but I don’t think he knows it."

"That’s enough." Max made the motion of closing his hand, and Max nodded his order to obey.

Starsky’s mouth snapped shut abruptly. He stood aghast at all he’d said, things he hadn’t even realized consciously, until now. He would do anything for Hutch. He hoped they wouldn’t think he meant ‘love’ in the other way, like he and Hutch had a thing going on. Of course they loved each other, but…

The big guy lowered his head a little and grinned at Starsky. "You’re going to make him go home. Make him hate you, if you have to. Break his heart, and send him home to us."

Nobody was laughing now. They meant it, all three, more than anything they’d meant in their lives.

Starsky stared at them in dismay. They couldn’t make him do that. They couldn’t…

The big guy turned to Max and waved a hand at him. "Fix it up, Max."

Starsky stared at them in dismay, his heart thumping hard. He could run, he could… He couldn’t do anything, he realized with sinking certainty.

Max grinned at him, and advanced. "Here’s what you’re gonna do…

* * * *

Starsky sat on a chair, hands in his lap. He’d been squeezing his nails into his palms, trying to distract himself…

In the bathroom, he could hear the water running.

He was in Hutch’s place. The apartment downstairs would be getting a drenching soon enough.

If only Hutch would get home.

If only he’d never come back at all and hear the horrible things Starsky had to say…

Keys rattled. The door opened. "Starsk…?" Hutch stopped, in the nearly dark room, staring at him.

Starsky clamped down on his lips and teeth, but it did no good. Open his mouth came, and the terrible words began to spill out. He called Hutch a shithead, an asshole, a fake friend who’d been controlling him all along. He said instead of fixing him, Hutch had broken him. He told the imaginary story about trying to date a girl and when he’d wanted to kiss her he’d been unable to, and how it was Hutch’s fault, he must’ve done something irreversible….

All the bile in the world seemed to pour out of his mouth. At first Hutch just stared at him, gaping. Then he advanced and demanded to know what was wrong, what he’d done… He tried to reason, implored "Starsk!" and then said it again, harsher. He tried to take Starsky by the shoulders and look him in the eyes. "What’s wrong, Starsky?"

But Starsky got away. He walked to the sink, still talking, and turned on both faucets. He walked to the bathroom and turned off the tub and pulled the plug before it could overflow. His eyes were leaking and all the while he said such ugly things.

He couldn’t stop talking, and now he was shaking too. He squeezed his eyes shut and trembled, and then opened them again and continued the name calling. Max’s orders, apparently, wouldn’t allow him to let up while Hutch was in the vicinity.

"Starsk. Stop it. What’s wrong with you?"

Hutch caught his shoulder and turned him around.

And then Starsky had to do it. He couldn’t help it anymore than he could help breathing: he punched Hutch in the face.

Hutch stood there gaping, shaking his head, blinking hard, and bleeding from the nose. Starsky’s eyes were leaking again, and he couldn’t stop saying ugly things.

Hutch’s jaw tightened and his eyes shone with surprise and sharp anger. Then he reached up and touched his nose, and the bleeding stopped. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, smearing most of the blood off. Then he advanced on Starsky, a firm look in his eye, no longer surprised, no longer able to be hurt, but firm, almost fierce, and oh-so determined.

"No no," Starsky found himself saying, and fell backwards, tripping over his own feet to get away. He’d gotten the tub turned off before it could spill much, but the floor was slick with dampness.

Then Hutch was there, beside him on the floor, holding his shoulders, turning Starsky to look at him. Starsky tried to stay rigid, turned away from him, squeezing his eyes shut. He tried to squeeze his mouth shut, wanting to stop this for both of them. He was making a funny sort of strangled sound in his throat, trying not to talk anymore. Actually it wasn’t funny at all; it sounded genuinely scary.

"Shh," said Hutch, and squeezed his shoulders. "Shh." And just like that, the comfort began to bleed in and chase away his terror and pain. Hutch’s hands were like singing birds, like hot water bottles on a freezing day, full of comfort so great, so undeniable. Starsky let out a shaky breath and bit his lip.

"Worst friend a guy could ever have—" he said, and Hutch gave his shoulders another squeeze of comfort. Starsky released a giant sigh, and Hutch tugged on him, helped him get upright.

"Hate you so much…" said Starsky, leaning against him, face against his chest, words slurring with sleepiness.

Hutch ran a hand gently down his back. "Stay awake till I can get you to the couch," said Hutch. "I’ll call my grandma, and she can fix it. Then you can explain."

"Just such a jackass," said Starsky, mumbling the words over a giant yawn. "Can’t see what I ever saw in you."

"I know. Me neither. Shh." Hutch almost cradled him taking him to the living room and got him awkwardly splayed out so he could collapse on the couch. Then he looked at Starsky’s hands, where his nails had dug into his palms and drawn blood.

He fixed those too, and then he patted Starsky’s chest. "Now you’re gonna sleep," he said, looking into Starsky’s eyes.

And Starsky did, mid-sentence, cutting off the hateful words.

* * * *

He awoke with the fierce, beady eyes of Grandma looking at him, as if he were a science experiment or something stranger.

"Sit up, boy," she said, and Starsky did, abruptly, to a twinge in his back. He’d fallen asleep in a funny position and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or why. Then he saw Hutch and remembered.

He opened his mouth, groaning aloud in frustration as the words began to bubble to the surface again, the ugly words meant to stab and hurt.

"Enough of that. Stop," said Grandma, and Starsky stopped, blessedly. He blinked at her, obedient and wretched.

"Now who told you to say such things?"

And Starsky told. The whole tale came rushing out of his mouth. He stumbled over his words, talking too fast, out of control and shaky. Partway through his narrative, Hutch came and sat beside him on the couch, and put one hand on his back. It was warm and comforting, giving him a small dose of Hutch’s sleepy-good-feeling potion, making the task and memories bearable.

He told about the fire, and the orders, and how Max had tried to make him chase Hutch away with hateful words and punches. He told how he’d tried to overcome the orders by biting his lip, digging his nails into his palms, running the water, behaving oddly to catch Hutch’s attention and show him something was wrong, that acting this way wasn’t Starsky’s choice.

When he was done, scowling Grandma and anxious Hutch exchanged a look. Then she went about fixing Starsky, giving him back his free will so he didn’t have to obey any of the commands Max had given. While she worked, Hutch kept a hand lightly on the middle of Starsky’s back as if to hold him up, keep him from falling. But he was doing something, too, because some of the shakiness was leaving, and he felt the last of the horror of the flame-memory losing its heat and terror, retreating far away and then going behind a door and the door closing.

He breathed a shaky sigh of relief and turned to Hutch. "Thanks, man." He put his arms around Hutch and leaned on him, just hugging him, all self-consciousness gone by the exhaustion and events of the past hours.

Hutch hugged him back, patted his back, and then traced a warm circle in the middle of it. Starsky was starting to fall asleep again, but he drew back and struggled to keep his eyes open. "You know I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean a single word. You’re a great guy."

Hutch nodded silently. There was a touch of pain in his eyes but he tried to smile, to show he hadn’t believed any of it, anyway. He took Starsky’s wrist, pulled his hand down from Hutch’s side, and then got up and got Starsky stretched out again in the couch, this time on a more comfortable position on his side. He touched Starsky’s shoulder, and the warmth seemed to overtake him again, gently, like an incoming wave of warmth and comfort, and love.

Before he closed his eyes, he glimpsed Grandma, standing there looking grim, as if waiting to discuss something.

"Sleep, Starsk. You need to rest, and you’ll feel better when you wake," promised Hutch’s voice.

Starsky slept, long and deep and blessedly dreamless.

　

　

　

　


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine

　

　

He woke to see blue eyes staring at him. A sturdy body sat on the couch, dipping its edge down and crowding him. "Starsk. Starsk," said Hutch firmly. He put a hand on Starsky’s arm and gave him a little shake. Even being shaken by Hutch was somehow comforting. Starsky yawned a little and tried to sit up, but he was trapped, so he lay back down again, and yawned up at the big blond and stretched his arms over his head.

"Boy I feel good."

Hutch’s concerned face relaxed into a rather shy smile. "Good. I made you sleep a little too long. I was getting worried." He let his hand give Starsky a pat on the side and then moved away, rising and giving him room to sit up, and a hand to pull him upright.

Starsky accepted it and got upright on the couch so there was room beside him for Hutch. Starsky looked at him expectantly, humbly. His mouth was dry, he needed a drink, and he had to pee. But Hutch was more important.

"Yes? What is it?"

"We’re going to…" Hutch jumped up and turned away. "Never mind, take care of your business. I’ll tell you later."

So Starsky drank, peed, and grabbed some toast from the kitchenette—he was ravenous—and checked the clock, and realized he didn’t even know what day it was. He wandered back in to Hutch, crunching his buttered toast. Hutch was pacing, a worried frown on his forehead, making lines on it.

He turned to face Starsky immediately, and it was interesting to note that his expression lightened and got softer at sight of him. It made Starsky feel good, that he could bring a smile to Hutch’s face like that.

"Buddy, nothing ever spoils your appetite, does it?"

Starsky took another bite of toast. "What day is it?"

"Tomorrow. Starsk. I—I need to tell you something." He went to the couch and sat down, patting the seat beside him.

"What?" Starsky sat next to him. He finished his toast and wished he had more. Since he didn’t, he rubbed his greasy palms on his trouser legs. Hutch didn’t appear to notice.

He realized he wanted Hutch to give him the comfort touch again. Maybe Hutch really was addictive. (Indeed, his friends had been awfully desperate to have him back.) He looked at Hutch, and tried to concentrate.

He was saying something, and obviously thought it was very important. "So do you see why you’ve got to come back with me?"

Starsky started to nod, and then changed his mind and shook his head. "No, hold on, go where?"

Hutch released a sigh, the intense look in his eyes turning to one of faint censure. "Weren’t you listening at all? Back home with me. They’ve got to meet you, and then you’ll be my official…friend, and nobody can…can do anything like they did to you today, or else they’ll risk the consequences of the whole family’s ire. So…come back with me, okay, Starsky? Come see my home."

"I’d love to see your home," said Starsky with perfect sincerity. "But how will we get out of the academy long enough?"

Hutch looked down, and didn’t meet his eyes. "My grandma’s arranging it," he mumbled, looking guilty. Then his gaze shot up again. "But Starsk, this is important. It’s more important than class. Next time they might try to kill you…"

Starsky blinked. "Would they?" He wanted more toast, and badly. And perhaps some bacon, eggs, sausage, ham… He scratched a hand back through his hair, and yawned. "I got the feeling they just wanted you back."

Hutch seemed to dismiss this thought. "Maybe, but they were certainly willing to hurt you. I don’t want to find out the hard way. I’ve bought round-trip tickets. Will you go along with me, just humor me about this, Starsk? It is your life I’m worried about, and I think this is the only way to keep you safe."

Safe, by going into the lion’s den? When even the friendlier relatives, like Grandma, could scare him witless on a good day? But he trusted his friend, more than ever, and no matter the situation.

"Whatever you think, Hutch. I would like to see where you grew up."

* * * *

He stared out the window in dismay, watching the land whisk by below at a dizzying rate. He never should’ve asked for a window seat. Apparently all the people who said fear of heights and fear of flying weren’t the same thing had never flown. Or perhaps never feared heights. He averted his eyes and bit his lip, enduring the feel of turbulence shaking the plane, rattling the trays.

Hutch sat beside him, keeping an eye on him, but so far he hadn’t found it necessary to share his amazing talent. Now he did, reaching out and gently, with two fingers, touching Starsky on the arm.

Starsky felt himself relaxing instantly. The nerve-jangling noise and fear retreated. He let out a breath, and felt disappointed when Hutch gently withdrew his fingers. There was to be no extra warmth then today: none of the sleep-inducing good feelings, the waves of comfort and warmth.

He felt a little disappointed. Hutch really was a bit addictive. He found himself almost pitying—almost!—the people who had so recently been cruel to him. It must be a terrible thing, to have Ken Hutchinson around for years and years, to grow up with him and know he’d always be there if you hurt yourself or felt terrible or even just got too sad, and then to have him leave. You’d never want to give him up. Starsky could almost understand their willingness to do anything to get him back, even if he couldn’t approve of their methods. The thought of what they’d done and tried to do still made him a little sick. But he could understand not wanting to lose Hutch.

* * * *

The plane landed at a smaller airport, and they boarded a smaller plane, just the two of them and a pilot. They strapped themselves in and took off again right away. Starsky tried not to look out the window. In this plane, he didn’t have to be seated near it to be near enough to see; there was nowhere far from windows on such a small plane. It jostled them with turbulence.

He kept a death grip on his arm rests. Well, actually, they were shared armrests, so he had a grip on his and on the one that was half Hutch’s. Hutch stretched his hand out to rest on top of Starsky’s, as if to reclaim his rightful half, the top half in this case. The anxiety began to slowly bleed away.

Starsky let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Hutch was good, and he must be getting better. It was almost undetectable this time.

* * * *

They arrived, finally. He must’ve fallen asleep, because he had to blink his way awake, with Hutch smiling at him and nudging him. "C’mon, Starsk. Come see my home."

Sleepily he dragged himself from the plane, yawning a lot and feeling somehow light. He stuck by Hutch’s side and held onto his bag.

Hutch stopped suddenly, and Starsky banged into his back. He felt too mellow to protest, but looked up to see what the issue was.

…and found himself looking around a paradise. Just past the small runway lay a white sand beach on one side. On the other, trees grew profusely.

It looked like a tropical paradise. It was even hot enough. He could hardly believe this was the United States. Surely it was some dream vacation island. He let out a whistle.

Hutch turned and grinned at him. "Like it?" He wore a very full look on his face, as if he felt almost too emotional to speak. Starsky nodded reverently, and Hutch grinned at him and suddenly reached around and picked him up. Starsky obliged by lifting his feet up behind him, flinging his full weight into Hutch’s arms. Hutch was strong; he lifted Starsky as if he weighed nothing, even though Starsky could’ve sworn to being only about ten pounds lighter than Hutch.

Starsky grinned down at him a moment. "Gonna let me down? When do we get to explore?"

Hutch’s smile disappeared. "Not till after you meet the family, Starsk." He set Starsky down carefully, both feet on the ground before letting him go. He reached out and straightened Starsky’s T-shirt for him with absent, nervous fingers. He looked grim, full of concern.

Starsky fell into step with him on the way to a little building all painted in white. Here, Hutch lifted a phone that looked at least twenty years old, and called for a car to come pick him up.

They waited inside the breezy building, sipping fruit punch from the refrigerator humming in the corner. Starsky was still sleepy, and he’d started to drowse again, slumped in an ample wicker chair, his eyelids dropping as he stared at the faded Miss March on the calendar on the wall, marked 1956. She’d have looked great even on a current calendar, he thought.

"Starsk." Hutch bopped him on the arm, and he jerked awake with an interrupted snore.

"Huh? Wha…?"

"Car’s here." Hutch hefted both bags and started out, a grim set to his shoulders.

Starsky scrambled to his feet and hurried after his friend. They got into a Rolls-Royce driven by a man wearing a driver’s uniform and hat. The road, he noticed, was nicely and evenly paved even where it cut through the woods.

The dreamlike feel of the island continued all the way. Hutch exchanged pleasantries with the driver, asking how his wife and daughter were doing. There was something almost subservient about the way the man replied: very cheerful, as if he were talking to someone who could give him a big tip. Starsky didn’t quite like it. It seemed weird to him, but he supposed if the Family was so rich, Hutch probably _could_ give big tips if he wanted to.

The thought was a little strange. Although Hutch cleaned up nice, and sometimes wore nice slacks and shirts with collars, he was just as likely to throw on an old bowling shirt and jeans and forget to comb his hair. It was hard to think of him as rich, even if his family was.

Insects and birds were making loud sounds while they drove. Tension radiated from Hutch. He had that frown line on his forehead like he was thinking too hard. He sat in the back next to Starsky, not saying anything. Starsky nudged him once and tried to get a smile out of him, but Hutch just looked distracted and brushed the hand off his arm.

When they arrived, Starsky could hear music playing. Loud classical music, like a waltz or something. He craned his neck and peered out the windows of the car, trying to see where it was coming from. Now he saw it: people sitting on a long, low, extended porch and deck, all made of wood and very charming to look at.

Several people were dancing on the wide deck: two women in flowing white dresses with amazing dance skills and—

Starsky’s breath caught in his throat, seizing up at the sight of the two men. He recognized the big, broad-shoulders of Jack and the shrimpy, malevolent Max. They weren’t bad dancers.

"Hey," said Hutch, putting a hand on his knee, keeping his voice low. "You don’t have to listen to those guys anymore, remember?"

Grandmother’s words. But what good would they do out here with those monsters on the loose? Dancing and enjoying themselves no less, with two young ladies. Now he noticed one of them was the brown-haired, sinister Mara. She looked much nicer dressed like this—even though she was pure evil! In spite of himself, his teeth were almost grinding in a rage and his hands had tightened into fists.

(Grandma should’ve come along!)

The other woman he didn’t recognize, but she appeared to be a real beauty. She looked so very young and lithe; she was by far the best of the dancers. Her long, blond hair moved a lot while she danced, like it was a living thing. She was perhaps twice as alive as everyone else, even without its addition.

"Hey," said Hutch. He stroked a finger over the knuckles on one of Starsky’s fists.

"Don’t do that," said Starsky through his teeth. "Don’t make me relax against my will."

"You’ll be no good stressed like this. You need to be calm. Let me?"

Starsky needed the comfort more than he needed to hold onto feeling furious, so he untangled his fist and gave Hutch his palm. Hutch instead touched the more sensitive skin of his wrist. In a moment, big fingers had breathed calmness into Starsky; he still felt unnerved and upset, but now he didn’t feel ready to fight or flee. He could face them with equanimity, villainous as they were. With Hutch by his side, he’d be okay.

The car parked and the driver tipped his hat to Hutch very respectfully. Hutch gave him a rather distracted nod, like a duke acknowledging a loyal retainer, and then headed towards the house with long steps. No tip traded hands, Starsky noticed. He followed close on Hutch’s heel, carrying both bags. Hutch had forgotten his.

　

　

　


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter ten

　

As they reached the building the dancers stopped—at least some of them did. Jack was the first to spot Hutch, and his face lit up. He looked very alive and surprisingly human at the moment. Even Starsky couldn’t help thinking what a very vibrant person he looked.

Jack started down from the deck at almost a run, jumping to the ground and lumbering towards Hutch, a smile and a greeting on his face.

Then Max and Mara saw him and started after, almost in synch. At last the blond lady glanced at them and reluctantly stopped dancing with one last shake of her hair. She didn’t follow the others but stood there waiting.

Someone from the porch moved forward with quick, scuttling steps, bent of back and aged, and took the record off the player. Silence fell, except for the birds and the bugs.

Hutch’s back held a lot of tension.

Jack stopped short with his arms outstretched. "Hey, stranger."

"Hello Jack." Hutch’s voice was quiet, very quiet and somehow dangerous.

"Why’d you bring him?" Jack’s arms dropped to his side and he jerked his head in Starsky’s direction.

"Because he’s mine and you had no right to touch him." Still he had that fierce, dangerous quality to his voice.

The words would’ve sounded odd from anyone else, but Starsky understood perfectly. If someone had tried to hurt Hutch, he’d have felt exactly the same way.

At Hutch’s words, the other two stopped short as well, a little further back. Max’s and Mara’s expressions held abrupt dismay—and guilt.

"Aw, hell," said Jack with a lazy, naughty grin. "You wouldn’t hold a little thing like that against us? We just wanted you to come home."

"You hurt him," said Hutch.

Starsky felt himself flushing. Not that anyone was paying any attention to him. They were all looking at Hutch like Starsky wasn’t even there, except perhaps a pet, a dog tagging along. He hated for Hutchinson to say in public that he’d been hurt. Starsky had, of course. It had been one of the worst times in his life, up there close to his father’s funeral. But somehow he didn’t want them knowing that.

"Aw, hell, Ken, didn’t know you’d take it like that."

"No? How’d you think I’d take it?" Hutch sidestepped the friendly hand reaching out to grip his arm. Jack almost managed to look contrite, as he withdrew his arm.

"We’re sorry, Ken. Didn’t think you’d take it like that." He had a mellow, smooth voice when he was apologizing, quite persuasive. Starsky wondered if that was his superpower. Come to think of it, he’d never figured out what Jack’s was. Mara had…fire…and Max could make people do whatever he said. But somehow Jack seemed like the leader, most powerful of them all. Now Jack looked at Hutch, with somehow almost shining blue eyes.

Starsky was still behind Hutch’s back, so he couldn’t see Hutch’s expression, but he saw his back relax for the first time since they’d arrived on the island, almost a slump of relaxation or relief.

"Apologize to him and I’ll forget it," said Hutch, in a soft and mellow voice.

Starsky blinked. An apology? That was it? But somehow he didn’t feel quite so worried either, after catching a glimpse of that blue shining gaze.

Jack continued to look at Hutch and then gave him a slow, smiling nod. He squeezed Hutch’s arm and then let go, moved past him to face Starsky, somehow theatrically.

"You guys, too," said Hutch, to Max and Mara. He sounded calm, as if a great weight had been taken off his mind.

Max and Mara obeyed meekly, lining up near Jack, glancing at him once. They all faced Starsky, and he felt shy. It wasn’t nice to be ignored, but it was much nicer than being stared at by these three. He wanted to disappear into the ground. His hands were trying to tremble, only he wouldn’t let them. He really wouldn’t.

He swallowed hard, and took one step back. Hutch was just watching, with a calm, peaceful look on his face. Like he was totally relaxed!

"We’re sorry, Starsky," said Jack in a very nice voice.

"Yeah," said Mara. "I’m sorry about all that."

"Me too," said Max, looking a little grumpy, his eyes flashing once, but his expression mostly sullen and guilty.

Jack’s blue gaze caught Starsky somehow, and it felt nice. He realized they were telling the truth—of course they were, Jack wouldn’t lie! Starsky nodded once and smiled, his chest puffing up a little, his hands not wanting to shake at all now. "Okay. I forgive you."

Jack took a step forward and gave him a handshake, big, warm and charismatic. Max gave him a nod, and Mara ducked her head a little on the side, looking at him as if he’d suddenly become a real person, someone to contemplate.

It was all very strange. But somehow it didn’t feel strange.

Starsky found himself falling into step with the group, smiling, as they all headed up to the house. Hutch laughed at something Max said, and then he was beside Starsky, they were in step, Hutch’s hand came up and rested on Starsky’s head for a moment, ruffling his hair. Starsky closed his eyes for an instant; he felt even calmer.

On the deck, Hutch left his side and walked up to the blond woman. The rest of them hung back. Starsky started to follow, but Jack held a hand out in front of him and he stopped. The blond woman gave Hutch a nod, and Hutch said…

"Hello Mother."

Starsky blinked.

She was nowhere near old enough to be his mother. She looked his age, maybe even a little younger. Certainly not a mother.

_Are they playing a joke on me?_

She nodded to him. "Son. Are you planning to stay long?"

"No, just a few days." He turned to look at Starsky. He smiled, a smile just for Starsky, glad to see him, seeing him alone in the crowd. He motioned for Starsky. "Mother, meet my friend."

Starsky walked to his side feeling glad. Hutch put an arm around him and Starsky felt even gladded. His hand was very nice; maybe he was giving more mellow feeling to Starsky. He just wanted to put his head down on Hutch’s shoulder and lean against his comfort-giving self. Instead, he gave the woman a smile and held out a hand.

"Pleased to meet you."

She took it, and gave it a light shake. There was something in her eyes that gave him pause. Beautiful as she was, there was something cold, almost predatory in her blue eyes. He’d seen women look at him like that sometimes, when they were assessing whether they’d like to sleep with him. There was nothing coy about that look.

He dropped his gaze, hoping he’d somehow misunderstood. Not Hutch’s _mother_ …even if she was too young-looking to be a mother. Maybe she was his stepmom?

They walked onto the porch to greet an old man who sat rocking in a chair, swatting at flies right and left with a metal mesh flyswatter. He nodded to them. He had sharp eyes, even though he looked ancient, achy, and fat.

"Grandpa, meet my friend Starsky," said Hutch happily. Grandpa nodded, and gave Starsky a sharp look. Starsky found himself standing as tall as he could, trying to look competent and worthy of being Hutch’s friend. He wondered if Grandpa could see all the way down to his soul. He wouldn’t have been surprised.

"Well, welcome to our island home," said Grandpa in a surprisingly high, squeaky voice. He sounded like he could play a miner in an old west show, the whiny old miner, but it was his real voice; he really sounded like that.

Hutch put a hand around Starsky’s shoulder again, grinning so hard his mouth must’ve hurt.

"Everybody, this is Starsky," he said, turning to all the collected, watching servants. "David Starsky."

* * * *

After that an elderly woman showed them to their rooms—spacious, adjoining bedrooms looking out onto lush, verdant forest. As soon as they were alone, Hutch laughed and picked Starsky up and swung him around.

"They like you! They really like you!" He laughed again, set Starsky down and grinned at him, then whirled away and ran to the sliding glass door. He flung it open and leaned out, head towards the sky, eyes closed, breathing deep of the forest.

"Ah, I’m home, I’m home, it smells like home!"

Starsky walked up behind him and put a hand in the middle of his back. "Home?" he asked, his voice sad.

Hutch nodded. "I grew up here, Starsk. Oh, you don’t understand. It’s like…like waking up from a dream, coming back here…"

"But what about the academy?"

"Huh?" Hutch turned to blink at him, and seemed to notice Starsky’s mouth turned down for the first time. "Ah, Starsk, I won’t forget about that." He reached out a hand and touched Starsky’s face, and Starsky found himself twisting away from the touch, smiling a goofy grin, his face tingling. Apparently Hutch had made it impossible for him to frown, because he kept smiling for some time.

Hutch was a nervous ball of energy for the next hour and a half before suppertime. He went for a run on the beach, took a shower, and wanted to play touch football on the beach.

Max, Mara, Jack, and Hutch seemed to be the only young people there, along with Starsky, of course.

After Hutch’s insistence, they seemed to accept him easily enough, almost as if he were an equal, although of course they had less to say to him than to Hutch. Starsky felt a little shy still to be alone with any of them, but not so shy in a group.

"Jack, Jack, throw it to me!" He heard himself calling, and raised his hands to show he was open.

Jack threw it to Hutch. Apparently forgetting it was touch football, Mara and Max tackled him together, knocking him to the sand. Hutch was laughing too hard to fight them off.

After the game ended, they headed back to the big house. Starsky tagged along happily, keeping an eye on everyone, feeling eager to please and halfway wanting to be noticed more, halfway glad to be partly invisible.

At the meal, he was allowed to sit next to Hutch, although Jack on Hutch’s other side got most of Hutch’s attention. Starsky felt mellow and glad to be included at all. He ate with abandon, as soon as he stopped feeling self-conscious about all the different utensils.

There were lobsters. Giant lobsters! And ham and about a million other things he couldn’t wait to try. He wanted to lean over and ask Hutch what a couple of things were, but Hutch was busy with Jack, so Starsky just ate them anyway, and hoped there was nothing gross like snails.

* * * *

Starsky shifted in his slightly disturbed sleep, frowning. Something was trying to work its way to the surface of his memory, but he couldn’t remember what. He felt it rise like a whale, slow and solemn from the deep, making a great sad sound.

Then it was gone again. He smacked his lips and rolled over in his sleep, putting an arm around Hutch’s mother.

* * * *

He woke up trying to fit the pieces of himself back together. Trying to remember where he was, who he was, and why he had such a bad, bad headache.

He gripped his head and winced, and looked over at the other half of the bed with some trepidation. There was no one there, but it was rumpled. He saw long, blond hairs on the pillow. His eyes widened, his heart pounded. _I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t!_ _Not her!_ It must’ve been a dream; it must. Maybe the sheets hadn’t been washed very well. He brushed the hairs quickly away and straightened the bed, turning the pillow over.

"Hey Starsk," said Hutch’s voice, and Starsky jumped as though shot, was out of bed in an instant.

"Starsk," said Hutch in a halfway embarrassed reprimand, averting his gaze from Starsky’s lower half, smiling a little.

Starsky made a sound unfortunately like a squeak, and grabbed for the sheet. "Yes?" He cleared his throat, trying to bring it down an octave. "What is it, Hutch?" He stood there wretchedly, feeling exposed and terrible in front of his friend.

"Well, when you’re decent, it’s time for breakfast. Most important meal of the day. And often the tastiest. Starsky, you never told me you sleep in the nude."

"I don’t…always. I mean only sometimes. When it’s hot out," he babbled.

Hutch shrugged. "See you down there in a couple minutes, okay?" He wandered from the room.

　

　

　

　

　


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter eleven

　

After breakfast (it was indeed wonderful, and there was more lobster—lobster, at breakfast!), an older servant took Starsky aside and asked what sorts of jobs he was good at. At first he didn’t understand, but then she made it clear. Guests could only stay for so long without working. If he wanted to stay on the island with Hutch, he’d have to choose some chores and start contributing. "For instance we need drivers, cooks, people to tend the pools and rake the beach after a storm…"

He was staring at her. "No." He shook his head gently. "Just a little while. We’re going back to the Academy."

She stared back at him, looking almost affronted, or perhaps as if he were speaking a language she didn’t know. "That’s what you think."

* * * *

Starsky was crying. In his sleep, weeping buckets.

"Starsk, Starsk!" Someone was shaking his shoulders, and then he stared up at a worried Hutch. "Buddy, what’s the matter?" He eased down on the edge of the bed without letting go of Starsky’s shoulder.

Starsky reached for him with another jagged sob. "I dunno H-Hutch." He hiccupped and tried to catch his breath; he was crying too hard. "Help me. It hurts."

"Shh. Where’s it hurt, Starsk?" Hutch rubbed a soothing circle on his chest. His healing fingers, as always, made Starsky feel better—but not to the degree they usually did, and not as fast as they usually did.

He hiccupped again. "I d-dunno, Hutch. It just hurts. Inside. A lot."

"Cleaning the toilets wasn’t too hard, was it? I thought they were gonna show you the easy way."

"They did, but—" He frowned, pursing his lips. There had been something he wanted to say, but he’d forgotten it. "Hutch, I…I don’t…" He shook his head, trying to remember, but the thing was gone.

"Ah, well, it’ll come to you." Hutch stretched out next to him, his voice soft and soothing. "You can’t forget something forever. It’s okay." He rubbed the soothing circle on Starsky’s chest until sleepiness began to take over again.

In that dreaming place halfway between sleep and wake, Starsky remembered something. "Hush."

"Yes?"

"Your mother."

"What about my mother?" said Hutch, sounding amused. "She looks too young? Yes. That’s her power. A bit icy? That’s just her, I’m afraid. If you ever want sympathy, go to one of the servants. That’s what I had to do…" He didn’t sound like it bothered him much, but how could that be? She was his _mother_.

Starsky’s eyelids drooped as he lost the battle. "I—I don’t _like_ your mother, Hutch."

"Oh? Well I don’t much either," he confided. "But how come, for you?"

"I—I can’t remember. But I really, really don’t like her, Hutch. Hutch…" He clutched Hutch’s sleeve, and tried to say something really important. But then he was asleep, and had forgotten again.

* * * *

Starsky was serving drinks on the veranda on a warm, sweaty, lazy-feeling day. Jack and Max played a lazy game of knife-throwing at a target down on the lawn. Mara peered into a mirror in the shade, shaking her head to arrange her hair and practicing pursing her lips.

Hutch had fallen asleep on one of the porch’s wicker chairs, his head tilted sideways, his mouth partway open in sleep, a blank, pale look on his face.

Starsky had checked on him twice, but he’d had to go back to drink-serving; that was his job today, and you couldn’t neglect your job. He went back to serve the older Family members, down on the veranda. They were talking, and some of them were playing whist. When he came back to bring the Bloody Marys and mint juleps, an older man was standing over Hutch, one hand on his shoulder, leaning over him solicitously. Starsky froze for a second, and then walked over to join him.

"Are you Hutch’s dad?" he asked. He still held his drink tray, and the man glanced at it and then at him, at his face.

"Yes, and you are?"

Hutch was rousing, but slowly. He’d been hard to awaken lately and seemed to need naps more often. He groaned a little, rising, and rubbed one fist on his left eye, squinting unhappily.

Mr. Hutchinson’s gaze left Starsky’s and riveted on Hutch.

"Dad?" said Hutch, frowning and squinting. He looked rather lost, like a little boy.

His father helped him sit up straighter. Hutch grimaced as he straightened his back.

"Why are you sleeping during the day?" Mr. Hutchinson’s voice held a sharp, bitter tang.

"Guess I was tired. Couldn’t you start out by saying ‘hello?’"

"And who is this?" said his father, jutting his chin at Starsky, just as if his son hadn’t spoken.

"That’s Starsky." Hutch reached out for him, and Starsky moved closer, as if in obedience to a silent command. He was always glad to listen to Hutch, while he couldn’t say the same sometimes about listening to other Family members. He couldn’t always put his finger on why, and he seemed to listen regardless, but Hutch was the only one he obeyed gladly.

He moved neared to Hutch’s chair and Hutch put a hand on his thigh. Starsky saw Mr. Hutchinson’s eyebrows rise at the intimacy of that gesture, but Hutch was yawning, didn’t appear to notice. He let his hand drop after a moment and then patted the arm of his chair. Starsky sat down happily—it creaked—and balanced the tray, held it out towards Hutch, offering. The blond hesitated, hand hovering a moment, then took a long, cool iced tea. He sipped it, and looked up at his father again, still a little lazy and out-of-it from sleep.

Starsky kicked a foot back against the chair, feeling happy for some reason, and heard the chair creak. "I’m the one who called you," he said. "When Hutch went to sleep for so long." He frowned suddenly, trying to remember something, but it was gone again. He shook his head a little, but it didn’t come back, and he had to give up, as he’d had to do so much recently regarding memories. Just…let them slide away, like slippery fish, too quick to catch.

He leaned against Hutch a little. The blond was sturdy and warm from sleep, and comforting. Hutch gave his arm a silent squeeze, as if in support, although Starsky wasn’t exactly sure what that support might be for, and Hutch didn’t seem to be certain either.

Mr. Hutchinson observed them without comment. When he spoke it was abruptly, and on a different topic. "You left police training."

Hutch frowned, his brow furrowing. "Yes, I guess we did." He turned to Starsky. "How long has it been, Starsk?"

"Four week? Longer? I don’t remember, Hutch." They looked at one another in consternation, and then at Hutch’s father.

"It’s been a little over two months."

"That long? Well, I guess we’ve flunked." Hutch sat up slowly, as if it took a great deal of effort. Starsky put a hand on his back to help. He moved to help his friend automatically, although he didn’t think Hutch would always have needed that help. He had lately, though.

Hutch’s father walked over to face Mara, standing in front of her, looking down angrily. She moved the mirror and met his gaze insolently.

"All right, what have they done to my son?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about." She faced the mirror again and pursed her lips. She put a dab of lipstick on again, finishing the edges.

"Ken," said Mr. Hutchinson with finality. "You’re coming with me." He took his son’s arm and dragged him off. Hutch stumbled once, but didn’t resist. He was slow and tired, but his father seemed to have no patience for it.

"Starsk," said Hutch, and Starsky hurried after him, the drinks left on a side table.

Jack said, "Hey!" He dropped his knife and started to follow.

Starsky hurried after Hutch and his father, catching up and grabbing Hutch’s arm, holding on tightly. His heart was pounding very hard, and he felt both afraid and excited.

"You’re coming with me tonight, and your grandmother will have something to say to you tomorrow." Hutch’s father led them to a car and pointed for them to get in. It wasn’t the sort of command you disobeyed, even if you were in a contrary mood, and neither were. They climbed into the limousine-like interior and stretched out. Hutch’s dad slammed the door. Jack was nearly here, walking purposefully, and people were coming down from the veranda, to protest it seemed, but he ignored them, got in the front and told the driver to go.

They headed off down a road Starsky had never travelled before.

"Hey!" called Jack again, behind them. "Get back here!"

Hutch and Starsky smiled at each other, silly grins; they didn’t seem to know why. Hutch splayed out, so he could rest some more. Starsky moved towards him, moving closer and wrapping an arm around him, squeezing him tight and pressing his face against Hutch’s shoulder. His eyes had a disturbing propensity to get wet, although he didn’t know why.

Hutch tangled an arm around him and gave a strange little laugh that sounded almost like a sob. "We’re okay," he said. "I don’t know what I mean exactly…but we’re going to be okay."

* * * *

They took a flight back to California, and Hutch kept his hand on Starsky’s almost the whole flight. But never, not once, did he use his powers on him.

They were both grown men, physically and legally, but over the next three days, they did a lot of crying.

Because Grandma made them remember. Helped them, but…but sometimes it felt as though she made them. The sedentary forgetfulness and safety of their captivity was stripped away, leaving them flayed raw and skinless with open, gaping wounds.

Sometimes they just looked at each other and started crying. There was no help for it either, because Grandma refused to make them forget or tell them not to cry. She was a severe woman, and somehow Starsky understood now how she’d become that way.

Apparently, she’d lived with Grandpa for many a year, their similar talents dueling each other, if not personally (for Family was not supposed to use Gifts against Family), then in their spheres of influence.

But whatever the rules were, the Family had broken them on Hutch. Everyone had conspired to keep him and Starsky there, no matter the cost. Because Grandpa had wanted him to make him feel better. The pains of age were finally catching up with him, strong though he might be, and a good dose of Hutch was enough to give him relief, make him feel young again.

But it seemed he had kept wanting more. And Hutch, unable to disobey, to think fully for himself anymore because of Grandpa’s orders, had given that relief to him even at the cost to Hutch’s health.

He was now so worn down he had to rest after a short walk. His father made him drink his drops in water every few hours, although at a smaller dose than for when he was nearly catatonic. For all his ferocity, Mr. Hutchinson was gentle with his son, and didn’t scold him when he began to cry, or had to sit down suddenly from weakness.

Starsky saw him once stroking his son’s hair back off his forehead. It gave Starsky a funny feeling inside, somehow both glad and sad. He was glad Mr. Hutchinson had some kindness and gentleness for his son, who needed it so much right now…and he felt achingly jealous that he’d never know that from his own father again.

Hutch was not even well enough to give Starsky an emotional boost to get through his painful memories. It was left to Grandma to get him through the worst of it, and all Hutch could seem to do was rub his arm and start to cry as he realized what pain Starsky was in. They all strictly forbid him to use any more of his energy, and he somehow or other ended up obeying them.

Grandma talked Starsky through some of the worst of it, sitting up with him at the kitchen table at night…late hours into the night, listening with her fierce, solemn, wrinkled presence to the things he’d remembered…and the awful way remembering them made him feel. Powerless. He’d been so powerless. So…stupid. And it hadn’t been his fault, but…but he couldn’t stand to remember it, to remember his cluelessness, the way they had been able to order anything and he couldn’t question it.

"I was a slave," he said, and it was true; he had been. They’d wrecked his life and Hutch’s both.

　

　

　

　

　


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter twelve

　

　

"Hutch, don’t argue. You need to do the ceremony with him."

"But Father—"

"No ‘buts.’ It’s for his own good."

"He’s been through enough!"

"Exactly. That’s why you have to keep him safe."

Hutch made a sound like a frustrated whimper, and thumped a fist down on the couch beside him.

Starsky chose that moment to enter the room. "What ceremony?" he asked.

They both looked at him. Hutch colored slightly. It was good to see color in his cheeks, even if it was from embarrassment. "You don’t need to know, because we’re not going to do it."

Starsky sat down beside him and put a hand in his. "Just tell me, Hutchinson. I’ll say ‘no’ if I don’t want to."

"That’s the thing, Starsky. You never say no to me."

"Sure I do. I didn’t go to the funeral, did I?" At least they remembered their old lives now. Those days had stopped being forgotten, misty dreams.

Hutch nodded at last. "All right." He turned towards Starsky. "It’s—ah, a ceremony for…for…"

"The Claiming," said Mr. Hutchinson.

They both looked at him, and Hutch colored further. He tried to pull his hand out of Starsky’s. Starsky let him. "Yes. That."

"What’s it mean?" Starsky looked between them. "And what’s it look like, when it’s at home?"

Sighing, Mr. Hutchinson sat down opposite them and began to explain. "It’s a brief ceremony. It means in the Family’s eyes, you belong to him and no one can do anything to you they would not be allowed to do to him."

Starsky turned to Hutch. "I thought we already did that. You brought me there, and introduced me as your friend."

"It’s a little more formal than that. You have to have witnesses from the Family. Under normal circumstances, I would never recommend the ceremony unless you were planning to marry someone outside the Family, though sometimes they do it for a new servant. But in this case, I believe it’s necessary. Once we get your treatment straightened out, Starsky will be a target if you don’t do something to protect him. And from what I’ve seen of you two, you’re already close enough that it’s a moot point." He regarded the two sitting side by side on the couch, close. He addressed his son. "I can see you’re not in love with this boy, but he means a lot to you."

Hutch nodded, looking down. Starsky somehow wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t say or do anything. He felt amazingly close to Hutch, too, but no one had ever called him out on it this way, and he could tell how uncomfortable Hutch felt having their connection labeled.

Mr. Hutchinson said, "I suspect you’ll stick by him as long as he wants you around, whether you do the ceremony or not. So just be a good boy and do it, get it over with, and I and your grandmother will witness."

Mr. Hutchinson seemed to have accepted Starsky totally. Perhaps he would have even if he hadn’t had to rescue the two young men, but Starsky wasn’t positive about it. He thought something about seeing Starsky and Hutch stick together at their lowest, when they couldn’t even remember most things, had made Hutch’s father feel differently than he normally would’ve about an outsider getting close to his son.

"I can’t do that to him," Hutch said quietly. He traced one of his big feet on the floor, and then looked up at his father. "He’s my friend, and he’s been through enough with the Family. He doesn’t need more from me."

"Hutch." Starsky laid a hand on his arm. "Just tell me, what’s so bad about this ceremony that you don’t want to do it?"

"Nothing. I just don’t want to trap you. Does that make sense? After everything they put you through in the last months, you’d be crazy to trust one of us ever again."

"You’re not like them." He looked at Hutch, saw he was almost crying. "Hey." He squeezed his arm. "You’re not."

"I think you’d be better off if I never got involved in your life."

"I wouldn’t." Starsky couldn’t imagine wanting out of knowing Hutch, even with all the crap that had happened since.

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Hutch looked down at his lap, his eyes welling. Starsky caught hold of one of his hands and squeezed it.

"See what I mean?" said Mr. Hutchinson quietly. He got up and gave his son a pat on the back. "I’ll call your grandmother. Let’s get this over with."

Once Mr. Hutchinson had left, Starsky turned to his pal. "Hey. Just tell me what’s so bad about it. Hm?"

"N-nothing, Starsk. It just seems demeaning. I have to kiss your eyelids—"

"My _eyelids_!"

"—and tell you you’re mine. Then you repeat it back, tell me you’re mine. Both of us say it twice. You—you’re kinda supposed to kneel when you say it, but not everyone does that."

Starsky thought about it for a minute. "My _eyelids_. I guess that’s not so bad." He frowned slightly. "Think your father will make me kneel like that?"

Hutch shrugged.

"It’s not that I mind, I just…don’t know if I’d want somebody watching me kneel, you know? And saying I’m… yours like that. It sounds a little funny. Even though I think I’ll stick with you forever and always want to be your pal, just saying it like that… I dunno." He shrugged.

Hutch nodded, looking relieved. "Good. So we won’t do it."

"No, we’ll do it. If it keeps me safe, then you can stop feeling so guilty." He gave Hutch a grin. "Because I know you do, moron. You haven’t exactly been subtle about the self-castration."

Hutch grimaced, shutting his eyes. " _Castigation!_ "

"Whatever. But I’m gonna talk to your dad and tell him I don’t want to kneel."

* * * *

With Grandma and Mr. Hutchinson watching, Hutch stood in front of Starsky, and took his hand. He faced him, looking embarrassed and shy. He moved closer jerkily and hesitated in front of Starsky’s face. Starsky squinted a little, his face screwed up.

Hutch moved closer. "You’re mine," he said, and pressed his lips against Starsky’s closed left eyelid. The touch was dry and quick. "You’re mine," he repeated, and quickly repeated the gesture to the right eyelid.

Starsky opened his eyes.

Hutch moved back a step, looking relieved and happy. "Halfway over."

Starsky looked at him a moment, and somehow he did want to kneel. (Hutch’s father had said he should do whatever seemed right at the time; he hadn’t seemed overly concerned.)

Starsky started to get down on one knee, like a man ready to be knighted. But Hutch caught his hands, held both of them and shook his head slightly. Starsky stayed standing, and kept hold of his hands. This seemed right, too—facing each other, equals. "I’m yours, Kenneth Hutchinson. I’m yours. And you’re mine," he added.

Hutch grinned at him, and he grinned at Hutch, and the ceremony was over; it hadn’t been a big deal after all. They released each other’s hands and then Hutch grabbed Starsky in a big hug, squeezing him tight. "My buddy," he said near Starsky’s ear, and Starsky couldn’t help grinning and hugging him back, hard. He and Hutch—whatever they’d been before, they were the same thing now, only formal.

They let each other go, held at arm’s length, and smiled into each other’s eyes.

"Just don’t think you’re carryin’ me over no threshold," he joked.

Hutch made a face at him, but he laughed, too.

The things been broken by their captivity were now healing. It was still them versus the world, but with some of the painful things now truly in the past instead of still so concretely in the present.

They ate a good lunch with Grandma and Father at a rather fancy restaurant. The food was good, but not as good at the Family had every day back on the island. It tasted much better to Starsky, though. He avoided lobster, and ordered chicken parmesan with fettuccini. Hutch stole a forkful and tasted it, then made a disapproving face and told him he shouldn’t order food that looked like tapeworms.

Starsky shoved him hard under the table, and ‘accidentally’ loosened the pepper shaker lid before passing it to him. Hutch, behaving like a ten-year-old, pretended to stab Starsky in the arm with a fork, grinning wickedly. Mr. Hutchinson cleared his throat at that point, but other than that, the older people let them joke around, not talking about the Family or anything too serious.

And a little later in the day, Hutch led Starsky onto the back porch of Grandma’s house. It overlooked a private beach, presently empty of people. They stood looking out over it, leaning on the railing. Hutch didn’t look at him now, and Starsky waited for whatever Hutch was thinking about to emerge.

Finally Hutch turned to Starsky, his expression serious and sad. The cool sea breeze ruffled his slightly-too-long blond hair. He gripped the railing with both hands. "I can fix it now, if you want. I’m not going to do any damage to you by controlling away your feelings. You’ve felt them, they stink, and you’re not going to forget what it was like to have the Family treat you that way. But I don’t think you should have to carry it around forever, either, and I’m strong enough now to fix it. To fix it all, Starsk." He eyed him solemnly. "So I’m asking your permission. Can I take it all away? Those—those things they did to you. Can I make it stop hurting?"

For a second, Starsky thought he should refuse. Hutch had to carry his load; no one could take Hutch’s hurt away. But then he knew he couldn’t refuse; at least half of Hutch’s suffering was guilt over the way the Family had treated Starsky. And nobody had sexually molested Hutch.

"Sure, go ahead," Starsky said quietly.

Hutch gave him a small, quixotic smile, and led him over to the porch swing. They sat down, and Hutch began his magic. "I think I wanted to make sure you’d stay, first. Or else that you’d leave on your own, that I wasn’t forcing anything on you either way. I could’ve fixed you sooner, you know. I’d just have been tired longer."

"Well I wouldn’t want that," murmured Starsky, already beginning to fall under the power of Hutch’s comfort. It felt like he was actually fixing the memories, making them stop aching.

For a second, he waffled on the edge of feeling hurt. Hutch should’ve fixed it; he should’ve. But then he understood, with the next wave of comfort, that Hutch would never know if Starsky stayed because he wanted to, or if he was unable to leave because he was addicted to Hutch.

"I’d have fixed it before you went, if you let me," said Hutch, very gently. "I can’t bear the thought of you hurting forever. And I really don’t want us to stay connected if you don’t want to. You’re free to leave anytime. I’ll work things out so my Family never knows, and you’ll stay safe."

Starsky gave a little groan. It wasn’t fair for Hutch to try to hold a deep conversation when he was sinking so rapidly towards the sort of drunken, sleepy feeling Hutch’s healing comfort always seemed to bring him. "Tell me in the morning, buddy," he said, his eyelids—the ones that Hutch had so recently kissed—drooping.

He could see by Hutch’s face that he’d said the wrong thing, but he couldn’t seem to pull enough words together to get it right. He frowned, trying to remember his language skills.

"Stay. With you," he said at last, the final word nearly covered by a yawn. "You’re my pal. Stick up for me. Like me no matter what." He yawned again, squeezing his eyes shut. He hadn’t felt so calm and nice inside for a very long time indeed. The hurts were slipping away, becoming just memories. The gaping, festering wounds were healing. Hutch was magic; he just was.

He saw Hutch’s face relax into a goofy grin. Good, he must’ve said the right thing for a change. He settled back against the porch swing and closed his eyes, content in the safety Hutch was creating for him.

　

　

　

　


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter thirteen

　

　

"I’m still not sure about this." Starsky peered out the window, swallowed, and looked back at Hutch on the aisle seat. "I still think we should just stay away."

"Then they’d come after us again. Starsk." Hutch tugged his arm, a mixture of fondness and exasperation in his voice; Starsky had been looking out the window again. "If you’re trying to conquer your fear, there are better times. If you’re trying to get me to give you a buzz, just say so."

Starsky flushed. "That’s not it!" He’d certainly been tempted, but so far he hadn’t given in and asked. He meant what he promised himself about never using Hutch as a drug. It would profane their friendship. And he had a feeling most of the people in Hutch’s life had tried to use him for his gifts, one way or another, one time or another. He didn’t want to do that.

He glanced forward at Mr. Hutchinson. Perhaps he hadn’t, though. The more Starsky learned about the man, the more he had to admire Mr. Hutchinson. He’d gone out on his own away from the Family, returning home only rarely. He earned his own money and didn’t rely on the Family’s. He had his own life.

Unfortunately, that meant he hadn’t been there for his son much while Hutch was growing up. When he had been, he’d never been the most demonstrative of fathers.

Despite his quiet exterior, Hutch was one of the most affectionate and personable people Starsky had ever met. He really needed demonstrative love, not just a Christmas card, a birthday present, and a two week visit once a year.

Starsky saw the damage the long distant relationship had done to Hutch when he saw the two together—father and son, but somehow, strangers. Hutch never felt confident around his father or confident of his love, even though it was pretty obvious to Starsky that Mr. Hutchinson would’ve done anything to protect Hutch.

He wondered sometimes if Hutch’s closeness with friends (once upon a time his cousins, but now Starsky), was in some way related to seeking the emotional closeness he’d always wanted with his father.

Then he had to laugh at himself. Trying to analyze Hutch!

* * * *

They arrived. Starsky wished the plane ride had taken longer, maybe forever so they’d never have to set foot on this accursed island again.

Hutch glanced over at him and offered him a smile. He reached across and squeezed Starsky’s arm. But Hutch’s smile was tight; this was hard for him, too.

"I’ll keep you safe," said Hutch’s father grimly, not even looking at them. He just seemed to know how stressed and tense they were.

"You boys are all right," rasped Grandma.

Starsky walked so close to Hutch their arms touched, and he kept almost tripping him. Finally Hutch caught him, pushed him a few inches back, and reached up to ruffle his hair. He gave Starsky a stern look. At the touch Starsky, began to relax instantly, his tensed muscles loosening, some of his anxiety bleeding away. He still stuck close, though.

They reached the little old building with its familiar, outdated calendar. But instead of waiting for a ride, Hutch’s dad went around back. The boys blinked and followed him to where a little, aging VW sat. They folded themselves into it, Grandma and Mr. Hutchinson in the front, the boys in back. It was small for Hutch. He had to keep his head down.

Starsky squeezed Hutch’s shoulder. He couldn’t take his friend’s nerves away—and the big blond guy was assuredly nervous—but he could silently promise he wasn’t alone.

Hutch’s dad drove the beaten-up vehicle in grim silence. None of them spoke. The car belching fumes into the quiet, jungle-like roads. Birds sang and cawed raucously around them in the thick, dark trees hung heavy with humidity.

At last they arrived. Mr. Hutchinson pulled the car up right to the house, instead of at the path like the driver had done at the other visit. The four of them got out. The car looked small and tawdry, out of place in that magnificent air of riches. Hutchinson Island was like stepping into the past—a grand, palace-like mansion, redolent of riches and quiet ease, elegance and good taste—and slavery.

Hutch shivered. His father reached over and squeezed his neck. In turn, Hutch reached over and squeezed Starsky’s arm. Nearby, a bird called. The sun shone bright and cheerful, and Starsky felt oddly disconnected from his body. He physically did not want to walk another step nearer to that house. But staying behind would mean being without protection. He stayed near the Hutchinsons.

One of the Family—one of Hutch’s uncles—started towards them with an angry look. He opened his mouth and raised a finger. Then he blinked and opened and shut his mouth like a fish. He stared at his finger, looking shocked that nothing had happened.

Starsky glanced at Hutch’s dad and saw an intense, angry look on his face. He was staring at the uncle, hard. After a moment, the man turned and hurried away.

Servants were visible now, three of them. Just watching. No one moved forward. They had the looks of people who would not have interfered, if they could. Who hoped for Hutch’s dad to do his worst….

Hutch’s dad headed up the steps into the mansion, his steps purposeful, his mother by his side.

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other and then headed up the steps, too. If something was going down, they’d rather be near Mr. Hutchinson and Grandma than anywhere else on the island.

* * * *

At first the Family came at them in ones or twos.

Jack was the third. "Why, hello, Grandma and Mr. Hutchinson—and Ken. What a surprise." He forgot to mention Starsky, but it didn’t matter. His voice wasn’t working. His eyes weren’t, either. They didn’t have that glow that made you trust him and believe what he said.

Starsky found he’d still shrunk a little behind Hutch, frightened of what might happen, how they might all change their mind as soon as they saw Jack.

But it didn’t happen. Mr. Hutchinson just fixed a glare on him—a very fierce glare—and Jack grinned nervously.

"Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Hutchinson. Ken. Grandma." His gaze flicked between them, and he seemed distressed by the fact that they were stonily ignoring his reassuring words. He tried again: "Why, we’re glad to see you!"

Grandma glared at him, fierce, tiny and dangerous as a dinosaur. "Leave," she said, her words like hammers hitting nails in. "Do not go near Starsky or Ken again. You are forbidden to even look at them."

Jack’s eyes flicked off Hutch, and he stared at the wall. "E-excuse me. I—I have something to do." He turned and walked from the room, trying to look like he wasn’t hurrying.

"He’s going to warn Grandpa," said Hutch in a nervous voice.

"I know. But he already knows we’re here. My father can sense me," said Mr. Hutchinson in a grim, lifeless voice. "Might as well not put it off."

He headed up the stairs of a wide, wide staircase two at a time. Grandma followed, then the boys.

They found him in the third room. Mr. Hutchinson headed their unerringly.

Grandpa sat in a large chair, shrunken and spider-like even though he wasn’t at all skinny. His head was lowered, his gaze malevolent, trapped and angry.

"Father," said Mr. Hutchinson in his grimmest voice. "I’m here to stop you."

Grandpa’s eyes flicked to his son and Grandma; he ignored the boys; they obviously weren’t important. Grandpa spoke in his whiny, TV-miner’s voice, his eyes glittering yellow-green with sparks in them, conniving and creepy.

"Now son, you don’t want to do that. Kenny likes helping me, don’t you, Kenny? Don’t you want to forget the bad things, and just remember the good things, grandson?" He looked at Hutch with his hypnotic eyes.

Only today, they were just eyes, and his voice was just a voice. And Hutch stood there and didn’t agree with him. Under Mr. Hutchinson’s full-on glare, Grandpa’s look and words didn’t work.

"Now," said Mr. Hutchinson in a clear, angry voice, like an angry Moses would’ve sounded if he had a southern accent, "you will all leave my son alone. You violated the contract of Family, and for that you must be punished."

"He violated it first," whined Grandpa, seeming to shrink into his chair and glower up at Hutch’s dad like a trapped groundhog. "He left to go to school."

"I left, and no one dared try to force me back here against my will. No. You knew it wouldn’t work on me. You wanted Ken’s talent, so you gambled—and cheated. You used your powers on him, all of you and for that you must pay."

Now he turned to Grandma. "Go ahead."

"Now, son…!" bleated Grandpa.

Hutchinson turned his fierce gaze on the man again. Grandpa shut up.

Grandma spoke, staring at Grandpa while Mr. Hutchinson seemed to hold him down with his power and keep him from using his own. It was frightening to see the old man seem to twist in place without moving, to see the murderous gleam of rage in his eyes. Starsky couldn’t leave. He stood there, horrified, and watched.

"You are never to use your power again," said Grandma. "This time, you went too far." And with that, she turned and walked from the room, a terrifying tiny dynamo standing tall.

A horrible hissing sound came from Grandpa. "You’ll pay for that, woman! You can’t—you can’t—" He started to rise from his chair, making a reedy sound of rage in his throat. Then he grabbed his chest and sat down again abruptly. Air puffed out of him in a frightening bleat. His eyes rolled in terror, pleading silently.

Hutch made a sound in his throat. He moved forward instantly, knelt by the old man’s side and touched a hand to his chest.

"Son, leave him," said Hutch’s father grimly.

"I can’t, Father," said Hutch. He kept on bleeding his strength into Grandpa until the old man’s gasps came easier, he sat up, and the pain left his face.

"Thank you, boy. I know you’re a good boy, not like your papa."

Hutch removed his hand and rose. Mr. Hutchinson had turned away angrily at Grandpa’s words.

"Are you sure you don’t want to stay?" the old man asked Hutch.

Hutch shook his head, quickly, looking a little frightened. He moved to his father’s side, and Starsky hurried after them. One final look back, and he felt enraged eyes aimed at him, promising death, horrible and slow. He shivered and hurried after the others.

They met up with Grandma in the hall. Somehow, she’d cornered Hutch’s mother, who wore a nearly see-through, filmy white lacy dress of some kind. At the sight of her, Starsky stopped dead and felt his heart ice over with fear. He felt violated again at the sight of her, especially now that he remembered her orders to him—telling him exactly what to do, giving him no choice. Her youth and beauty might be her main powers, but she had some of Grandma’s gift as well, and there was no resisting her. She’d ordered Starsky to her bed, told him to do exactly what she wanted. Sometimes afterwards she made him forget. Sometimes she’d just fixed it so he couldn’t tell anybody.

Hutch glanced at Starsky and moved to stand in front of him, shielding Starsky with his body. His face, what Starsky glimpsed of it, looked very grim.

With Father’s stare and Grandma’s words, the edict was given: "You will never again use your powers on young men. You will never again make someone have sex with you. If you try, your words turn against you. Your beauty turns to ashes. You will look exactly your age, and not a day younger."

"You can’t—" began Hutch’s mother.

Grandma turned around to look for Starsky. "Starsky—you are the one she used. Do you wish more, or is this punishment enough?"

Starsky looked around Hutch’s shoulder. Grandma’s eyes were scary-fierce. He just wanted to disappear. He wanted to stop feeling naked and ashamed. Hutch reached around and squeezed his arm. Some of his feelings bled way, and the ones that were left were bearable. He relaxed a little. "It’s enough if she can’t do it again."

They began to leave.

"But you _can’t_!" said Hutch’s mother. She ran after them, wild-haired, wild-eyed. "You don’t have the right!"

"We have the right, after what you did to the boy," said Hutch’s father, brushing past, not even bothering to look at her. "You’ve been let off easy."

She put a hand on his arm, to hold him back. "But RANDALL! You know I—"

And then she screamed. Whatever she had been about to say was lost forever. They all four turned to look at her. Starsky watched in horror as her face changed before his eyes. It was like watching special effects in a movie. She aged forty years in a few seconds, lines haggard and cruel appearing on the face that had previously looked youthful and beautiful, chiseled and perfect. The shriek that came out of her was one of the most terrible things he’d ever heard in his life.

 _Dorian Gray_ , thought Starsky, remembering a book from high school. He’d never read it, just skimmed enough to not fail the class. But the gist of it—a picture that takes a person’s age, leaving them forever young until the painting is destroyed—came back to him with horrifying clarity. She was Ms. Dorian Gray, and now she wore the look of her years and her wrongdoings. Her face sagged. The lines stood out harsh, the wrinkles not of a friendly, smiling quality but hard-living, hard-drinking, unkind lines.

He wanted to run screaming from the hall, the mansion, and the island at the sight.

"MY FACE!" she screamed, holding her hands to it, feeling desperately, turning pleading eyes on them. Then she ran.

Hutch, who’d had one hand still on Starsky, tore away in the opposite direction. He ran blundering down the hall. Starsky started after him, pounded down the stairs, scared now for his friend. No one was in their way; no sounds came from the eerily silent rooms they passed. The two burst outside at nearly the same moment. Hutch bent over a verdant bush and was violently sick.

Starsky, feeling a little sick himself, stood next to Hutch, keeping a hand on his back to let him know he wasn’t alone. Starsky rubbed a small circle on Hutch’s back, until the shaking and heaving stopped. Hutch cleaned himself up the best he could with a leaf. He stood up, his eyes red, his face ashen and ashamed.

"I’m so, so sorry, Starsky," he croaked in a terrible voice. "I’m so ashamed of what my Family did to you." He couldn’t seem to meet Starsky’s eyes. "You’d have been better off never to have met—"

"Don’t start that. I’m glad I met you. Go inside and get a drink of water." He gave Hutch a reassuring pat on the side. "Go on!" Hutch looked at him slowly, as if to see if he meant it, then went.

Starsky couldn’t bear to go back into that house, for any reason. He stood by the porch and waited. He crossed his arms and jittered in place. Birds twittered around the exotic, gorgeous mansion, which housed so much wickedness inside.

"Hey," said a voice behind him, and he turned: Max. He blinked once, and fear spilled out all through him. NO! He never should’ve—

"Go over there," said Max, his eyes glittering with evil intent. "There’s some nice flowers and leaves there to eat." He nodded to a huge, sprawling shrub, heavily-laden with white flowers. Starsky did not know its name, but it was pretty. "Go on. It’s good to eat."

Starsky went. As if in a dream, Starsky went. The plant was good to eat.

　

　

　

　


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter fourteen

　

　

"You feel good, don’t you?"

"Yes, I feel good." Starsky nodded mechanically. Juice from the leaves and flowers ran down his chin, and his stomach felt tight and fat from eating so much.

"Well, eat some more then."

Starsky reached for more, trembling a little. Max frightened him. Even if the shrub was good to eat, even if he felt good. Something was really scary about this. Something about Max’s eyes, Max’s voice. Like he wanted to kill Starsky….

Maybe, even if you felt fine, you could die from eating too much of it.

"What are you doing? Stop! Stop it, Starsk!" Hutch’s panicking voice sounded behind him, and Starsky turned, a handful of flowers halfway to his mouth.

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s shoulders, panic in his piercing blue eyes. He knocked the plant from Starsky’s hands. "Why would you eat oleander?! Don’t you know it’s poison?"

"But Max said it was good." Starsky stumbled. He felt funny inside; kind of dizzy, and his stomach felt... wrong. "Hutch." He leaned against his friend. "I don’t feel so good."

And Hutch was crying, and ran a hand over the back of his head.

After that, things were a messy blur.

Hutch pulled him back towards the house. Starsky stumbled twice, and finally Hutch picked him up and carried him at a half run, shouting all the while for his grandma and father.

They came…and Starsky found himself under their dubious ministrations, with Grandma ordering him sternly to throw up, and him doing so. He seemed to spill his guts all over the lawn, and still that wasn’t enough. They made him drink water and do it again. Then Hutch’s father carried him—Hutch was shaking too hard—into the house, and put him in a bed.

Hutch stayed close, one hand on his arm, bleeding healing into him. It never seemed to last, though, and Starsky felt worse and worse. He could hear their voices, but they seemed dim and far away. They made little sense in the horrible, hurting world he now inhabited.

He called for Hutch, kept calling for Hutch as long as he was able, and held that hand as tightly as he could, which wasn’t very tightly at all. He knew Hutch was talking to him, trying to fix him—Max had done something, hadn’t he? For a while, he tried to respond, nodding when Hutch asked if he wanted water, trying to drink it. But he couldn’t keep it down. He kept feeling worse and worse. And after a while, he couldn’t make sense of anything at all. Everything was just black, and he felt himself going away from it all.

* * * *

Starsky woke up. He stretched—then lay back, exhausted by that simple move. He felt weak and shaky as you do after a great deal of pain, when everything from your teeth to your hair seems to have that last ache in it, and you’re almost afraid to move in case the hurt comes back.

But cautiously, he did move. He sat up to get the water on the nightstand by his bed. His bare feet touched the floor and he winced at the sudden, vivid cold on his soles.

He wore pajamas, and didn’t remember changing into them. He had no idea what day it was, or what time. He got up achingly, but he could stand without feeling too dizzy, so he walked to the window and pushed the curtains open. Bright sunlight streamed through; he blinked at it. He shielded his head to cut back on the stabbing headache that threatened and closed the curtains partway. Then he turned back to the bed, and stopped.

Hutch was in the other side. How had he not noticed Hutch? He moved back to the bed and poked at the messy blond hair that was all that he could see of Hutch. "Hey. Wake up, Hutch."

No movement. No response, at all. Starsky swallowed hard. He pulled back the covers and checked to see if Hutch was breathing. He was, but it very shallowly. Starsky laid a hand briefly on his head and then walked to the door—slowly, but as fast as he could—to get help.

He almost walked into Hutch’s father, reaching for the door at the same moment. They blinked at each other, and then Starsky made room for Mr. Hutchinson to enter.

"What happened?" he asked, and grabbed a hand to his throat at the quick, burning pain there. He sounded extremely hoarse.

"Probably shouldn’t talk much, the way you were throwing up," said Mr. Hutchinson calmly. He gave Starsky one long look, neither approving or disapproving, simply cataloging him without much pleasure. Without saying anything else, he moved to his son’s side. He was carrying, Starsky noticed, some of that medicine they gave Hutch when he’d used up too much energy.

"What happened?" Starsky repeated.

"Drink. That’s my boy. Go on. A little more," said Mr. Hutchinson softly, tilting Hutch’s sleeping head until he complied to this calm order even in his sleep.

Starsky watched. A funny prickled down his back.

Mr. Hutchinson straightened and faced Starsky. There was no warmth in his eyes; perhaps they even held hate. "My son saved your life and nearly lost his own." Then he turned back to Hutch. Softly, but still speaking to Starsky, he said, "Would you get out of here, please, and leave me along with him?"

Starsky blinked and blinked. Then he moved to the door as fast as he could, his feet chilly on the floor, the rest of him chilled worse by Mr. Hutchinson’s words. Hutch had saved Starsky’s life…and risked his own.

Behind him, he heard a faint stirring. "Starsk—"

"Starsky," said Mr. Hutchinson in a sharp voice. "Get back here. He wants you." There was a grim set to his mouth when he straightened and directed Starsky towards the bed.

Starsky returned, his mouth dry already, even after the drink of water. He hated to be under that accusing, impersonal gaze. As if it was all his fault. Mr. Hutchinson had liked him well enough a few days ago. Before Hutch saved his life.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and caught Hutch’s hand, held it. The wrinkling of the blond’s brow and the tension in his face evaporated, and he settled in to sleep again. Starsky looked down at him a moment, swallowed hard, and then turned to Mr. Hutchinson. "How long has it been?" he croaked.

"It was yesterday." Mr. Hutchinson had his arms crossed, leaning against the desk by the window. "By rights, you should be dead, and my son should be fine. But he would rather die than watch you die, and I couldn’t stop him." He shook his head, as if overcome by these words. "I couldn’t stop him."

Starsky looked down at Hutch, sleeping but alive. "But he’ll be okay, won’t he? He’ll be okay. He was before."

Mr. Hutchinson shook his head. "I don’t know. How many times can he push himself this far and be okay? I just don’t know." Then he got up and walked from the room.

Starsky watched him go and then stared down at Hutch. He brushed some damp strands of hair off Hutch’s forehead. Hutch lay so still.

* * * *

They brought Starsky a tray of food and water, and he ate sitting on the bed, not far from Hutch. He used the restroom and showered quickly, and only then when someone stayed with Hutch, either his Grandma or Mr. Hutchinson. Even so, Hutch’s sleep was always troubled until he came back, until he was there again and told Hutch so and reached out to him. He could see how it ate at Mr. Hutchinson, ate him alive every time he had to see this—that his son would not only die for Starsky, but couldn’t rest peacefully without him.

Max had been punished. Starsky heard about it only in bits and pieces afterwards, but Grandma and Mr. Hutchinson had taken away his gift. And Mr. Hutchinson had nearly strangled him. "If he dies it’s your fault!" he’d screamed…

Max, terrified and not just of Mr. Hutchinson, had tried to back away, babbling in terror, "I didn’t mean to! Just Starsky! Just Starsky! I wouldn’t hurt Ken!"

He was no longer welcome here. The Family sent him away to the other side of the island to a working farm run by servants and employees. He would stay there, perhaps indefinitely. He wasn’t allowed near Hutch or Starsky ever again, even without his gift. Starsky wondered how he would look, without it. As small as he really was? The thought of Max, and what he had done, still gave Starsky the willies, and he couldn’t think about him without shivering and then feeling angry.

Sometimes in his sleep Hutch cried. It drove Jack almost frantic with worry. He wasn’t allowed past the threshold. None of them were allowed to comfort Hutch, except Mr. Hutchinson, Grandma, and Starsky. A few trusted servants were allowed to enter the room to bring supplies and take away old things. The room was guarded like Fort Knox with Grandma’s powers and Mr. Hutchinson’s anger.

But Jack would have braved them all, Starsky felt somehow certain, if it hadn’t been for Grandma, ordering him with her power to stay away from the boys. He still wasn’t even allowed to look at them. Starsky saw him sometimes, braving the doorway, walking backwards, so he couldn’t see Starsky or Hutch but could get a little closer.

His voice rose with frantic worry. "Is he all right? Just tell me if he’s all right?"

But Starsky wouldn’t answer him and when the others were there, they told him to go away.

"It wasn’t me," he’d said, voice rising frantically. "I wouldn’t." It was almost enough to make Starsky give in and tell him how Hutch was doing. But Hutch wasn’t okay. How would saying he was help?

Mr. Hutchinson snapped in reply, "You tried to hurt Starsky earlier, you’d have done it again if you could, and anything you did to him would end up hurting Ken. You had to know—if you’d paid any attention—they were official. And you know what Ken is like. You should have stopped Max."

"I didn’t know! Please, just tell Grandma to take it off, so I can go to him. He needs Family."

"He’s had enough Family," snapped Mr. Hutchinson. "Now get out."

And Jack, finally, had gone. He came back sometimes, though, and tried again. His powers of getting people to trust him no longer seemed to work, although he kept trying to convince them with his words. And then finally he would go away again for a while.

Hutch couldn’t do anything but sleep; he couldn’t wake up. He’d poured out his life like so much water for Starsky, and all Starsky could feel was ashamed. He didn’t want this gift—Hutch’s life in exchange for his own. He wanted to give it back, die rather than live like this, with Hutch in a state he might never recover from, all because of Starsky.

He wanted to give it back, but all he could do was be there when Hutch needed him.

* * * *

As he got better, Hutch became more restless in his sleep, and more verbal. Usually he was calling for Starsky. "Starsk—Starsk—can’t—gotta save—Starsky." It made Starsky’s heart ache in ways he hadn’t suspected possible, to be unable to reach Hutch there in that bad place where even now he thought Starsky was dying and he couldn’t save him. He made Hutch take his medicine and drink water, and tried to comfort him. But Hutch could never seem to believe he was safe, and all the time, in his dreams, he was trying to reach Starsky, to help him—and mostly failing, failing.

The rooms grew cramped as Starsky more fully recovered. He could let the sunshine in now without getting a headache. He stopped aching all over.

He paced the rooms, restless and trapped, worried about Hutch, angry with Max and the other terrible people who thought they could do anything to anyone. And he gave Hutch his medicine and made all the promises he could make, if only Hutch would get well.

　

　


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter fifteen

　

　

Grandpa stumped down to see Hutch, ignoring and waving aside his son and wife’s disgruntled words. "I wouldn’t hurt my own grandson," he said, and just came through the doorway anyway. It surprised Starsky that he was able to.

On his arm, supporting him, was Mara. Her lips were white and makeup-free, her face tight with grief and worry. She stared down at Hutch as though her best friend lay dying. Grandpa stood there and cleared his throat. He looked down at Hutch, and patted his shoulder with one gnarled hand. "Well. You’ll get better, son. Hear me? You have to."

How could they love him so much, when they’d all wanted to use him? Starsky told himself he’d never do that. But, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he used Hutch up, even though he hadn’t asked—or maybe he had, he couldn’t remember—when Hutch saved his life, and ended up like this?

Life wasn’t fair sometimes. Someone like Hutch, with so much life in him, and so much value and worth, got used, taken advantage of, and nearly killed, all because of what he could do, all because he was too gentle and giving for his own good.

Starsky wanted to stand at the window and scream, an endless roar of rage and pain that this could happen, that Hutch could be lost this way, and now everyone pretended to love him.

* * * *

Starsky picked up the phone, biting his lip. He’d been dreading this call: the call to tell his mother he’d dropped out of the academy, he didn’t know when he’d be home, and he couldn’t tell her exactly where he was now.

"Just tell me this, are you on drugs?" she demanded, her voice hard and shaking. "Your father would roll over in his grave if you started shooting up."

"No, Ma! I promise, I’m not on drugs. I—I have to look after my friend. He’s been really sick. I’ll go back to the Academy next year."

He hoped he’d be allowed to come back. How much could Grandma fix such things? Eventually, wouldn’t they just ban Hutch and Starsky from ever trying again?

Silence on the phone. Both of them breathing, a little raggedly.

"Are you in trouble?"

_Yes. No. Not the kind you can help with._

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "I’m fine, Ma." _I just feel so trapped here, with this Family that hates me. I’m not allowed to hurt them, but they can hurt me. And Hutch needs me. And I think I’ll go mad if I can’t get out of this house soon._

Mr. Hutchinson walked into the hall, frowning. He gestured impatiently for Starsky to return to Hutch’s room.

Starsky sighed inwardly. "I’ve got to go. I’ll call you next week, okay?"

"David Michael Starsky, you answer me this. Are you involved in something illegal?" she demanded. "Don’t lie to me."

"Ma! No!! I wouldn’t. I’m _not._ "

"Do you need money?"

"I’m—I’m fine. Look, I’ll call you, okay? Bye." He put the phone down, ran a hand back through his hair with a shaky sigh, and headed back to his constant duty, keeping Hutch from panicking.

 _Thanks for saving my life, buddy. And throwing away yours._ How could you be so angry sometimes, with someone who’d helped you so much? _It’s not like I wish I was dead. I just wish Hutch wouldn’t have almost killed himself for me. I miss him, I’m mad at him, and I’m grateful all at the same time._ For a second, dampness threatened his eyes. He blinked it resolutely away. Nope. It was time to be strong. For Hutch, and for himself. He wasn’t going to let the Family see they’d won, even a little bit.

He returned to the stifling bedroom, and Hutch’s side, and helped his weak, half-awake friend drink some water. Watching the shallow breaths, he had so much to say to Hutch right now. And he couldn’t. Maybe he’d never be able to.

* * * *

As he got better, Hutch opened his eyes for first seconds, then moments at a time. Most of the time, he blinked in exhausted, uncomprehending blankness. When they were lucky, momentary recognition lit his gaze. They squeezed his hand, and if they were very lucky, he squeezed back. He took his water and medicine like a good patient—far too docile and good for a normal, healthy Hutch—and fell back into his exhausted sleep.

At least now he seemed to be resting peacefully. He hadn’t spoken yet, but whenever he awoke, if he saw Starsky, his gaze lingered on him, not looking elsewhere until his eyelids flickered closed again.

Starsky always told him cheerfully that everyone was all right, and he should just rest and get well. _Everyone and everything is fine, Hutch. Just fine._

One day after he said this and Hutch slipped back into a peaceful sleep, Starsky stalked across the room, pacing. Hot, terrible tears filled his eyes. He reached up to the decorative shelf along the wall and caught the first vase he found. He turned and flung it against the wall, where it smashed satisfyingly into a zillion pieces. It didn’t fix the gnawing hole in him, though, the feeling that things might never really be okay again. It had already been far too long, and Hutch was still just sleeping….

"Clean it up," said Mr. Hutchinson, "and don’t be so childish."

Then he strode from the room, leaving Starsky to feel hollow and angry and resentful all on his own.

* * * *

It was a milestone day when Hutch could actually stay awake for several minutes, could actually hold a conversation. He couldn’t sit up yet, but he could stare up at them and string together a few words, sounding clear-headed but unbelievably tired. He asked what had happened to Max, took it in, and gave the faintest of nods, as if approving. He showed no other emotion, but his eyes sought Starsky, and Starsky moved forward as if a thread between them had been tugged.

"I’m okay, Hutch," he said, in a croak.

"Anyone can see that, Starsky," said Mr. Hutchinson. "Why don’t you let my son and I talk?"

Starsky nodded sullenly and moved away—but not before he saw the quick blink of surprise from Hutch, and the way he looked between them and seemed for the first time to see the anger that had sprung up between his friend and his father.

* * * *

The season was changing, the last of the leaves falling and winter’s nip chilling the air. Starsky could leave the room, even the house for longer periods of time now, wander out amongst the trees and everyone—everyone—left him alone. He scuffed through the fallen leaves, shoved his hands in his pockets and glared around moodily, almost daring someone to cross him. No one ever did.

He couldn’t stand to stare at the marred spot where the poisonous oleander had been and avoided walking near it or looking at it directly. But sometimes he glimpsed it out of the corner of his eyes. Mr. Hutchinson had burned it…. He’d chopped it down in one grim afternoon with no help at all, a huge shrub, and then he’d poured gasoline on the wood and lit a match….

Now it was a bare spot with some charred bits of wood. They still left off a rank smell when the air was damp or on a rainy day…. There had been a lot of rainy days that fall, and he could smell that sickening smell all the way up in the bedroom.

Starsky’s job was to stay near Hutch. Nobody even made him do chores anymore. When he offered, Mr. Hutchinson informed him icily that he should do the only thing he was good for—stay nearby if Hutch needed help.

So he’d taken up reading books from the huge Family library while he sat with Hutch in the bedroom. Hutch was propped up in bed on one side, sometimes on another so he would not get bedsores. Sometimes Starsky read out loud, but mostly he was quiet, straining his eyes as dusk began to fall, until he realized it was too dim to read, he needed to turn on a light.

He came to hate that bed where he and Hutch seemed to be tied. Hutch because he could not wake up fully, Starsky because he could not leave Hutch.

He knew it was poisoning him to do so, but he felt like he hated the Family, too….

But that first day, when Hutch could sit up on his own, that made everything worth it. It was a triumph for them all. The servants gathered ‘round the door, and some dabbed at their eyes. Mr. Hutchinson sat on the edge of the bed, closest to Hutch. Grandma sat, tiny and shrunken, on the other side of the queen-sized bed. Starsky stood not far from Mr. Hutchinson, hovering, nervous, waiting.

"I can do it, don’t help me," said Hutch in a small, breathy voice, as if it took all his energy to move, and he could spare none for speaking. He pulled himself upright as if he were lifting weights in a championship and this was his last push upwards. When he made it, the servants let out a stifled cheer. Hutch sat drained and sweating, breathing hard. He looked around and flashed a grin, proud and happy.

"That’s fine, son, but don’t take it too fast," said Mr. Hutchinson and gave Hutch’s shoulder a proud squeeze. He smiled at him encouragingly, helped him drink water and take some of his medicine. He stayed until Hutch settled back for more sleep, then hurried from the room, face dark and tight.

Starsky stayed, frowning a little, hoping Hutch would have the energy to eat later. They’d had to hook him to an IV for a while there. He hoped that wouldn’t happen again.

* * * *

"Starsk." A weak voice made Starsky startle from his book. "Sorry," added the apologetic voice.

"Hutch?" He shut the book, not bothering about a bookmarker, and leaned towards the blond. "You’re awake?" For once, he was alone with Hutch, didn’t have to stand back and politely give room to someone else or vie for Hutch’s brief attention. "Water? Medicine?" he offered.

Hutch nodded slightly, and Starsky hurried to help him. Then his friend lay back, exhausted. Starsky waited for Hutch’s eyes to close, but they didn’t. He was flushed and exhausted, but awake—and paying attention solely to Starsky.

"Are you okay?" asked Hutch.

Starsky nodded, gulping. That he was always the first thing Hutch worried about… well he shouldn’t be. Hutch worried too much. But still. "I’m fine, Hutch. You fixed it all. But you almost killed yourself, you know."

"I know. But I couldn’t bear—" He curled his hand, as if inviting, and Starsky went ahead and took it. Hutch smiled faintly and gave his hand a small squeeze. "I’m glad you’re okay."

"Hey, man, just get well, okay? Don’t do anything so stupid again. How do you think I’d feel if you’d died, huh? All because of me?"

"How’d’y’think I’d feel? F’you died?" Hutch stifled a yawn; he was looking sleepier and sleepier, but still earnest, his hand still loosely in Starsky’s. It didn’t feel foolish, this form of communication, when they couldn’t talk much. A steady hand in your own said a lot about something permanent, when nothing else was.

Starsky wanted to get away from the emotion, wanted to just leave the room and run down the stairs, get out of this stifling house and away from talking about dying. Hutch wasn’t allowed to die! Not ever! Didn’t he know that?

"Sorry, Starsk. I’ll get well. I will…" Now his eyes flickered closed as he lost the battle with sleep. "Sorry. And thanks…"

Starsky held onto his hand until Hutch was well and fully asleep and then released it and walked quietly outside to get some fresh air—feeling more than ever like a heel, because Hutch had somehow sensed Starsky’s feelings, and then thought he needed to apologize.

 _Man…_ Starsky scuffed leaves and kicked a stone, and wished he could punch somebody, or make Max be the one to pay this steep price for his survival, instead of Hutch.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter sixteen

　

　

Close to Christmas, Hutch was finally well enough to travel. On the plane, he wore a blanket on his lap; he slept through most of the flight. Grandma and Mr. Hutchinson sat close and kept care of him, leaving Starsky free to gaze out the window and drum his fingers against his seat, fighting the familiar discomfort in the air, all on his own, forcing himself to face it without Hutch.

They got Hutch settled in at his father’s house. Starsky hated how this huge, austere house made him feel so uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he needed to whisper.

And he wanted out. He knew he did not dare leave. Hutch would be hurt, would miss him. Had saved his life. But oh, how Starsky hated, hated living in a house with Mr. Hutchinson.

He seemed to despise Starsky, and Starsky found the feelings mirrored in himself, growing stronger with each slight or cold look, each time the man ignored him or blamed him.

Hutch was not well enough to be let in on any of this. It wasn’t fair to ask him to take Starsky’s side. And besides, wasn’t Mr. Hutchinson right? Wasn’t it at least partly Starsky’s fault?

Mr. Hutchinson’s home was big, impersonal and wealthy, with the kind of decorations you were afraid to touch because they were too fancy and expensive. The large rooms were sterile and impersonal, their dark furnishings radiating good taste.

Grandma came and went, Mr. Hutchinson went back to work, and Starsky was responsible for Hutch. He, and two servants.

Everything seemed tomb-like and he just wanted to get away.

But at least Hutch could talk now, sometimes. And there were still books. Mr. Hutchinson had a large collection too, and Starsky could go to the public library, here.

* * * *

"Starsk, look at me."

He glanced up from his book. Hutch was balancing a book on top of his head, smiling shyly. "I’m lookin’, Hutch. Would you not waste your energy on stupid stuff?"

Hutch dropped the book off the top of his head and his smile turned into a frown. "Stupid? It’s stupid to try to get stronger?" He was sitting up in bed. He often sat awake for hours at a time now, although he was still unable to do much….

Starsky turned another page on the book he was reading, sitting halfway across the room, and returned his attention to the printed words. "Yes, it’s stupid, Hutch. If you want to get stronger, focus on walking."

Silence.

Starsky sensed the hurt emanating from Hutch. He looked up and slammed his book shut. "Oh, hell! Don’t take it like that!" And he jumped up and went over, repentant, to sit by Hutch and rub his arm, until Hutch tore his gaze off the wall and stopped swallowing hard.

"I’m not trying to be a weakling, or—or annoy you, Starsk," he said in a small voice. His emotions were still unsteady lately, and he got hurt easily. "It’s tough on me too, you know."

"Hey, I know. I’m sorry." He hugged the blond man carefully close and ruffled his hair. It seemed so long ago and far away, that Hutch could’ve been strong enough to carry him anywhere…

* * * *

They walked side by side under the trees in Mr. Hutchinson’s big backyard. It was practically a park it was so big. Starsky stayed close automatically, but Hutch was doing well today. He didn’t even seem short of breath. He kept looking up and watching the leaves. They were see-through and pale, newborn leaves just unfolded for spring, brand new and special-looking. Hutch looked at them like he’d never seen spring leaves before, like everything was new to him.

Since that day, Hutch had been strictly told never to use his powers again.

With each phrase of Hutch’s recovery, Mr. Hutchinson seemed to grow more and more remote, slipping back in his old relationship with his son and barely talking to him. He had almost stopped acknowledging Starsky’s presence at all.

"Hutch," said Starsky, wondering if he’d picked the wrong day to tell.

"Yeah?" Hutch looked up at him, his expression calm and innocent, his thoughts still far away with leaves.

Starsky forced himself to go through with what he’d been about to say. "I’m gonna move out. I’ve lived with your dad long enough."

Hutch blinked and blinked again. "Oh. Of—of course, Starsk."

"I’ll be getting a job."

Hutch swallowed once and nodded. He didn’t reply.

"I need the money, can’t keep living off your father." He found himself almost trying to apologize for his announcement even though Hutch wasn’t complaining at all. He almost felt worse about it because Hutch wouldn’t argue with him.

"Of—of course, Starsk," he said quietly. "And I’m nearly well."

Starsky refrained from correcting him. He thought they both knew better and there was no point arguing about it anyway.

"I’ll still come over when I can—"

"No, no, you’ve done more than enough."

Silence as they walked. Starsky kept an eye on Hutch’s walk; his steps seemed to be growing slower, heavier. Tired or sad? Or both? Starsky hooked an arm through his. "Miss me already?" he said lightly, though really it wasn’t so funny.

Hutch smiled. "I do, Starsk. Sorry I’ve trapped you here. I’ve been a real burden—"

"Hutch, you saved my life."

Hutch turned to look at him, a strange look in his blue eyes. "Yes. So you feel like you owe me."

 _Sorrow._ That was his expression.

"I—" Starsky snapped his mouth shut. "I do owe you, Hutch! But I like you too. You know that. It’s just been hard with your dad."

"It’s always hard with my dad." Hutch sighed. He ran a hand back through his hair. "I just don’t know if I can stand to be here, around him without you."

"Move out with me."

"And help cover the rent…?" He smiled, looking somewhat hopeful. Then his smile disappeared. "Starsk, do you—do you still want to be cops? With me, I mean, or at all? Either one is okay. Or whatever you want." He looked at Starsky, endearingly, heartbreakingly uncertain.

Starsky gaped at him. "Of course! When you’re well enough, though, Hutch. If it’s not in time for this year, why, then we’ll wait for next time." He hesitated. "Sure, we’re gettin’ older, Hutch, but, well, you’ll be well enough someday, and—we’ll make a great team."

Hutch surprised him by wrapping his arms around Starsky in a quick, delighted hug. He didn’t try to pick Starsky off his feet like he’d have done in the past, but it was a start. It was a start.

* * * *

It was all fine and well to say he wanted to move out, but earning enough for the deposit was another thing.

He took a job hauling boxes around in a warehouse. It was hard work, but he could handle it; it helped take care of some of his restless energy and anger. It was awful being cooped up in a house all the time as a caretaker, even for his best friend.

Now he returned their each day, sweated and worn out, without that restless feeling inside. He had more patience with Mr. Hutchinson, too, now that he saw him less. Hutch was certainly well enough to look after himself, with two servants around to help, and Grandma visiting sometimes.

One day Starsky came back limping, hard. Hutch rose from the kitchen table, a look of worried concern on his face. He’d been eating a salad.

"Got any for me?" said Starsky, giving him a grimacing smile.

"What are you…are you hurt? What happened?" Hutch leaned over and put a hand on Starsky’s knee.

"What are you doing? Stop that!" Starsky jerked away from the healing warmth that went through his leg. He stared at Hutch, aghast. It had been the first time in months he’d felt that warm touch. And his leg felt immediately much, much better—the shooting pains were gone. "You’ll use up your strength," croaked Starsky hoarsely.

Hutch stood in front of him, stared at him and smiled. "Well, I can’t have you hurting now, can I?"

The kitchen door closed loudly.

Both men turned to see Mr. Hutchinson, walking into the house, moving purposefully. Very purposefully.

"Father. I didn’t see you there." Hutch chuckled nervously. "He was really hurting. I had to, you know. It was a bad sprain."

Silence. Mr. Hutchinson just stared at him. And then at Starsky. And then back at Hutch.

"I had to. He was hurting," said Hutch in a small voice, sounding miserable. He looked down at his plate. "I’m nearly well."

He sounded ten years old, and Starsky had the urge to walk in front of him, stand between father and son and somehow thus protect Hutch. But he also didn’t want Hutch to risk himself this way.

And Hutch wouldn’t listen to him—even if he could’ve got the right words out when he felt so nice inside, felt this pleasant humming healthy comforted goodness, a feeling he’d really really missed.

Right now he’d have been hard pressed to say ‘no’ if Hutch reached for his hand to rub it with his strange and beautiful warmth. Starsky had never be able to resist, frankly.

But Mr. Hutchinson _could_ say it. He could say it so Hutch would listen.

Hutch glanced imploringly at Starsky, asking for help.

Starsky tilted his head slightly to Mr. Hutchinson and twitched a brow. _Listen to your old man,_ he sent the silent message.

Hutch’s brow creased, but he looked at his father. "Well? I guess you’ll scold me now?" he said in a defensive tone.

"No." Mr. Hutchinson looked at him. Just—looked at him. "I don’t think anything I say is going to work. So I’ll do the only thing I can. Hutch, you can’t use your power anymore." He stared at his son hard, almost hypnotically. "It’s not going to work."

"Dad—!" said Hutch. "Don’t use your power on me! You can’t!"

"I just did." Mr. Hutchinson moved past him and went to the fridge. "And now you can’t use yours again until I say so. A week—at least."

Hutch looked at Starsky. Starsky looked at Hutch. Hutch reached out and touched Starsky’s bare wrist. Nothing. It was just warm fingers.

Hutch released him and spun away to Mr. Hutchinson. Hutch spent the next five minutes trying to talk his father out of it.

Starsky stayed close by, his mouth very dry. He didn’t know what to say or do. This newest development terrified him. Wasn’t Mr. Hutchinson doing the very thing he’d punished the Family for doing? Yet he was trying to save Hutch’s life. And managing to treat him like a child and a criminal at the same time….

But in the end it didn’t matter what anyone said. Mr. Hutchinson ignored his son and left the room, went into his study and locked the door. He didn’t say another word to either of them.

Hutch was restless all week, brooding, preoccupied, distant. He snapped at Starsky twice, which wouldn’t have been unusual for anyone else, but Hutch had always been so soft-spoken and slow to get angry.

Starsky tried to comfort him a couple of times, sitting down next to him to talk or put an arm round his shoulders. But it didn’t help. Hutch got up and left the room, leaving Starsky to wonder what he’d done wrong. Even when he just sat down in the same room as Hutch, sometimes Hutch got irritable and left. Starsky didn’t know how to do anything right just now. He would be glad when he had enough money saved up for his apartment. Right now he tried to keep his head down and stay out of the conflict. It was very strange to be rooting for Hutch—and yet half hoping that his father’s plan would work, would teach Hutch not to try using his power till he grew stronger.

　

　

　

　


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter seventeen

　

Finally, the week was up. Starsky and Hutch had made sure to contact Grandma. She showed up to witness what happened during the confrontation (if it became one).

Instead, Hutch’s father agreed to give him back his ability to use his power without any difficulty. He gave the orders with Grandma and Starsky watching. Hutch looked tense, stern, and older than he usually did: none of the carefree, overgrown boy about him, with a silly grin and hair constantly in need of a combing. His eyes held dull anger instead of his usual thoughtful, friendly expression.

His father returned his power, and Hutch immediately turned to Starsky and caught Starsky’s wrist between thumb and forefinger. Starsky startled, both at the surprise of the touch (because Hutch hadn’t wanted anything to do with him recently), and because he immediately felt the tiny jolt of Hutch’s ability giving him a shock of feeling. It was like a quick peck on the cheek when you didn’t expect or want one—even if it didn’t feel nasty, you often found yourself jerking back. Starsky did, now, ripping his wrist away and blinking.

Hutch’s father scowled. "You should know if it’s back without testing it," he scolded.

Hutch shrugged. "I had to be sure."

"You think your own father lies to you?" Mr. Hutchinson’s gaze, already formidable, grew even harder. He stood at his full, rather intimidating height.

Starsky tried to jump into the gap. "I’m sure he didn’t mean—"

"Be quiet," said Mr. Hutchinson. He and his son stared at each other.

"Well," said Hutch. "You _are_ Family."

And then he turned and walked away from his father.

Mr. Hutchinson’s mouth gaped open, before he caught himself and schooled his features. But Starsky didn’t look away quickly enough, and Mr. Hutchinson saw him watching his face; he gave Starsky a truly fierce look.

Starsky left the room hurriedly. He found Hutch in his room packing very sloppily. He was just throwing the clothes into the suitcase, with no regard for messing up the folded ones. He leaned over, pushing down on the pile to make more room.

Starsky stopped in the doorway. "What are you—?"

"I’m leaving." Hutch paused, panting a little. He was still weak sometimes, and obviously getting himself worked up about this.

"Hutch." Starsky moved nearer, wanting to reach out to Hutch, see if he was okay and reassure him, at the same time, not quite daring. He looked at Hutch enquiringly.

Hutch turned to frown at him. "You’re coming, too. I want us away from my father—from all the Family. This has gone far enough. Now he thinks he can take away my…?" He brought a trembling hand towards his face, shaking his head, swallowing hard.

"Hey. You’re really stressed, huh?" Starsky caught his hand and pulled it gently between his own. At first Hutch moved as if to pull away, but then he let Starsky keep his hand and smooth is between his own. "Hey. Calm down. We’ll leave if you want to, okay? Just take it easy. You want me to pack for you?"

Hutch hesitated, biting his bottom lip. He nodded.

He sat on the bed, and Starsky did the packing—much more neatly than Hutch had. He asked Hutch several times about which things he wanted to take and which he wanted to leave. Distracted, Hutch answered much at random obviously not really caring, so after a bit Starsky just decided for himself what he thought Hutch liked. He kept a green shirt and a blue one, left a gray one and a yellow one. The latter two really weren’t Hutch’s colors, though he never seemed to notice that.

Starsky asked Hutch to call a cab, grabbed a few things from his own room and shoved them hurriedly into a bag, and carried their luggage out. They walked downstairs with Hutch looking a bit sullen (but mostly exhausted), walking by Starsky’s side.

On their way out they passed Grandma in the kitchen. She put down her giant black mug of coffee (well, it looked huge in her small, bird-like hands), and stared at them. "You’re leaving, boy?" she asked her grandson.

Mr. Hutchinson walked into the kitchen, his face closed-off and angry. "You can hardly blame me for doing what’s—"

"I can," snapped Hutch.

For a moment, the kitchen was silent. A wall clock ticked. Starsky wished they would just leave. Instead, the three Family members were staring at one another, back and forth, taking their measure, thinking grim thoughts.

Grandma looked at Mr. Hutchinson and then back at Hutch. "Do you want to stay at my place for now?"

Mr. Hutchinson’s mouth tightened and his eyes flashed. They both ignored him.

Hutch shook his head. "No. We’re going to our own place. Starsk…" He rested a hand on Starsky’s shoulder to encourage him to go, or possibly to hold himself up, Starsky didn’t know which.

Starsky wasn’t entirely certain Mr. Hutchinson wasn’t right, but there was no way he was going to make Hutch think he wasn’t on his side. He and Hutch left the house together.

No one stopped them.

They got into the waiting cab. Hutch gave an address that Starsky wasn’t familiar with. They drove in silence, Hutch’s frown growing by the minute, until they arrived at a rather posh-looking hotel, and Starsky turned to him and raised his eyebrows.

"Think we can afford it?" The sight of this place filled him with dread. He hadn’t had a job very long, and he didn’t have much money. He’d never be able to afford this place.

Hutch shrugged. "I have money. It’ll be all right for tonight. If you’re worried, we can share a room."

"I’d rather share somewhere cheaper…" Starsky drummed his fingers nervously on his thigh.

"Don’t fight me, Starsk," said Hutch very quietly. "This is someplace I’ve been before, and—I need to rest now." He stopped, shaking his head, sounding out of breath.

"Yeah, okay, let’s stay here. This place looks great," said Starsky quickly. He hauled the bags in himself, didn’t let the concierge take them from him.

Soon after they got situated in their single room, the phone rang. Hutch picked it up, then slammed it down shortly thereafter with a hard look on his face. Starsky, who had been unpacking, straightened up and stared at him. "Your dad?" Hutch’s expression made the answer obvious. He swallowed.

"Don’t, Starsky," said Hutch in a quiet, unhappy voice. His face held anger, pain, stubbornness—a mix of things, none pleasant to experience.

"I didn’t say anything." Starsky raised his hands placatingly. He cast Hutch another keen look, taking in his expression. Words wanted to get past his lips, but he held them back.

Hutch swallowed. "He’s not like your dad. Don’t give me that look, Starsk. You don’t know what it’s like." He moved away and stared out the window for a long time. A long time.

* * * *

They made arrangements to go back to the Academy. They’d have to start out fresh, with the next group of applicants, it had been so long. Wasted months. Wasted, but at least they’d both survived. Sometimes all you could do was survive. There were so many things to look back about (Dad, ‘Nam, the Hutchinson Family). Resolutely, instead, he looked forward. Hutch needed him to be strong.

Hutch seemed a bundle of misery sometimes, locking himself inwards, angry and hurting and strange, not like himself anymore. Starsky did his best to be there for him and not offer advice, because it seemed like if he accidentally said the wrong words, he’d shatter his friend instead of helping him. It was too big a risk. A hand on the back, a squeeze on the arm—it was all he could do. For now. That, and be here.

They would start classes next month. Until then, Starsky needed to work. He couldn’t let Hutch pay for everything with his trust fund. It didn’t feel right. He was concerned he already depended too much on his friend. (Although sometimes, perhaps, it was the other way around….) Whatever the case, he didn’t want to be a burden.

Any more of a burden than he’d already been.

One day at his job hauling boxes, Hutch’s father walked up to him. He began talking without preamble, or even waiting for Starsky to say hello.

"You know it was for his own good. He obviously won’t listen to me if I say so, but perhaps he will to you. If he uses his powers…" Mr. Hutchinson shrugged, his eyes hopeless-looking and miserable. He had humbled himself to visit Starsky like this. It made Starsky feel both glad and uncomfortable at the same time. To see that he cared about his son so much was wonderful, but at the same time it was like seeing a powerful lion humbled. You felt bad about it even if you didn’t like lions; it seemed wrong.

"He hasn’t been," Starsky felt compelled to say. (For once, he and Mr. Hutchinson were on the same side, weren’t they?) "He’s been being good."

"I’m very glad to hear it. Very glad. I did not risk alienating him—which I seem to have done—for foolish reasons. He used up far too much of his strength healing you. If he does not wish to kill himself, he should stop using his power, completely and perhaps for years."

Starsky found himself nodding. "I can only say he’s been saving his strength. I think he knows it’s serious." Starsky hesitated. "I think he’d like to—get back to being friendly with you." He felt awkward and wondered if he’d even said the truth. But Hutch had been so miserable lately, surely…? "Maybe if you could talk to him…"

A loud expulsion of Hutchinson breath. "I have certainly tried, young man! You don’t know my son. He’s the most stubborn man on earth."

 _Look who’s talking,_ Starsky thought. "Did you say sorry about the way you handled it?"

Mr. Hutchinson seemed to puff up angrily. "How can I? Why should I? I did it for his good!" He looked intimidating in a foul mood like this. Starsky just shrugged and went back to his work. Mr. Hutchinson watched him for a moment and then went away looking rather ferocious, nothing solved.

They were just both too stubborn, thought Starsky, frowning. If Starsky’s Dad was alive, he didn’t think he’d ever have let anything come between them like this, even something big. Family was too important to waste this way. You never got another father.

* * * *

"Starsk. If you could do something, and it was really important to you—part of who you were and you just didn’t feel right if you couldn’t do it—"

Starsky glowered. "Not this again, Hutch. I think your father’s right. Yeah, I just said that. But he’s right this time, Hutch. Give yourself time to heal."

"Starsk." Hutch sounded just sad enough to make Starsky squirm. Add to that the way he moved towards Starsky and put an arm around him….

Starsky pushed him away and got up quickly. He was far too susceptible to Hutch and he didn’t want to give in and agree if he didn’t really think Hutch was right.

Sitting on the couch of the apartment they’d rented together, Hutch looked up at him, still miserable-looking, and crooked a finger towards him, reaching a hand out.

Starsky flushed and shook his head. "Don’t waste your energy."

"It would be nice to make you feel calm again," said Hutch quietly.

"I’ll feel calm when you’re healthy and happy."

Hutch’s face got long. "Not till then?" He got up and followed Starsky, and put his hands on him, one on his stomach, one on the small of his back. He looked at Starsky, eyebrows rising somewhat. "I think it would make me feel better if you felt better," he said in a quiet, small, honest-sounding voice.

Starsky shook his head, still slightly flushed. "Don’t be like that. I want you healthy again. You think I could feel happy sucking your energy like a—a vampire?"

Hutch’s hands tightened around him. "Well, would you cheer up anyway? I’d like it if you would."

Starsky gave him a small smile and extricated himself from those big, warm hands. He gave Hutch a pat on the arm. It made him uncomfortable that Hutch needed him to be happy, that he couldn’t just be himself. Even though he felt the same way, sometimes: he just wanted Hutch to be happy at almost any cost. But not the cost of losing his health. Never that. It was sometimes uncomfortable to be this close to another person. But somehow the cons never seemed to outweigh the pros.

"I don’t know what else to say, Hutch. I’ll be as happy as I can, and you do the same. I don’t think we can always fix things for each other."

Hutch looked sad and thoughtful at these words. He nodded. But then he moved back towards Starsky and wrapped his arms around him. "Sometimes we can, though. I know you’ve made things better for me."

Starsky returned the hug as best he could. "You, too, and not just with your power."

Hutch put his head down on Starsky’s shoulder a minute, as if gathering strength from him. "We’ll make it?" he asked in a small voice, seeking reassurance.

"We’ll make it," said Starsky, putting as much belief into his words as he could. Willing them to be true.

There were so many ways they needed to make it—through the Academy, through Hutch’s recovery and depression. Through changes to family and the testing of their friendship. Even though they’d gotten through so much already, it seemed there was always more ahead—and the weary feeling that there would always be more, that they would never reach a place of safety.

But for now, for today—they were that place of safety, for each other.

For a hug, it was a little long. For everything it symbolized, it wasn’t long at all.

　

　

　

　


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter eighteen

　

　

Jogging. Side by side. Starsky kept a close eye on Hutch, kept a look out for any tell-tale weariness, but Hutch kept up easily. He was long-legged and strong and although he sometimes grew clumsy, when they were jogging like today or when he forgot all about himself, his natural grace asserted itself.

They were jogging on the exact same course where Hutch had fixed the student’s broken leg.

Starsky glanced at Hutch to see if his friend recognized it, smiling a little. Hutch hair was messy, sweaty, and plastered down. He didn’t look too tired, but he looked grim and inward-drawn. Perhaps he remembered it less than fondly. Although Starsky didn’t know why that would be, he’d gotten awfully good at reading his friend’s moods. Now he reached out, keeping in step with Hutch, and squeezed his elbow.

Hutch shot him a quick, startled glance, then gave him a rueful smile.

It did Starsky’s heart good to see him smile and mean it. Not to mention strong enough to participate in the Academy.

He was getting good grades. They both were. Starsky studied hard on his own, working with a steely determination to become a cop, finally. Hutch helped him at times, turning his desire to help others towards his friend since he often couldn’t reach out to help strangers. He could and did talk Starsky through some nerve-wracking preparation for tests and studied with him.

"You remembering Schaeffer?" asked Starsky.

Hutch nodded. "I was thinking I wouldn’t be able to help him if it happened again. And I wish I could."

Starsky gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "Someday, Hutch. Be patient."

Hutch nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.

* * * *

Everything was going well. And he wasn’t worried about Hutch.

At least not until the day the local newspaper ran an article about volunteers at the children’s ward of the local hospital. There, plastered on the front page, was a picture of Hutch with his big, goofy grin crouching next to a sick little girl. She was smiling, obviously laughing at something Hutch had said. The two of them grinned at the camera, and out of the paper at Starsky. He gaped back, holding the paper so hard its edges crumpled.

Starsky felt himself going cold. When had Hutch had time to start volunteering again? The picture was current. The quote was current. He must be sneaking off to volunteer while Starsky was working his now part-time job. The bastard.

He read through the article angrily. The copy was feel-good Sunday filler about volunteerism in the local community. Hutch was mentioned in one sentence, but he and the little girl dominated the picture and the picture dominated the article.

Starsky lost no time in confronting Hutch about it over breakfast, slapping the paper down flat on the table in front of Hutch and glaring at him.

Hutch jumped.

"Well?" said Starsky. "Have you been using your power or haven’t you? Don’t lie to me."

Hutch’s guilty gaze dropped. "I wouldn’t lie to you." He toyed with his toast, twitching the crust sideways in a nervous gesture so it half slid off his plate. He raised his eyes, guilty and oh-so-blue. "Maybe just a little. Just—just to make her feel a little better."

"And some of the others?" asked Starsky, glaring at him.

"And some of the others," admitted Hutch, looking relieved that he’d told. "But honestly, Starsk, just a li—"

Starsky reached over and covered Hutch’s mouth. "Don’t. Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear it. You want to kill yourself? Don’t ask me to approve because I’m not going to. Honestly, Hutch, you couldn’t just confine yourself to reading Dr. Seuss to the kid? You have to start endangering your health?" He removed his hand briefly.

"But I’m being care—"

Starsky covered his mouth again. "No. No, you’re not. Not careful enough, when you almost died just a couple of months ago."

Hutch made no attempt to get free of Starsky’s hand, just looked up at him sadly, his eyes seeming to plead for understanding, sympathy.

Starsky removed his hand and sagged back into his seat across from his friend. He sighed and lowered his head into his hands. He thumped it against his hands a couple of times.

"Starsk," said Hutch. "Don’t take it that way." He reached out, tentatively, touched Starsky’s forearm. "C’mon, Starsk."

Starsky wondered how you could care about someone so much and yet just want to thump him upside the head. "I ought to smack some sense into you. But it wouldn’t work." He got up hastily, removing himself from Hutch’s worried, pleading expression. Hutch wanted understanding, acceptance, and Starsky could never withhold it from him for long. So he would leave and give Hutch time to think. Maybe a few hours alone would get it through that thick skull of his how dangerous this was.

Because when Starsky came back, he was pretty sure he’d say that he’d accept and care about Hutch no matter what stupid thing he decided to do. And Hutch would know that and promise to be careful and yet keep giving away his life…

That day at the academy, he avoided his friend. When Hutch sat beside him at lunch and tried to start explaining, Starsky picked up his tray and walked away. He found a new seat and tried to ignore the hurt he could almost physically feel from Hutch—and the one he felt from himself.

Of course, he could only hold out so long, even when he was trying to get through to Hutch for his own good. When they both got home that evening, Hutch looked utterly miserably, far too near tears, and Starsky felt much the same, a constriction in his throat as he tried to stay strong. Instead, he spent the next hour on the couch with Hutch, sitting near each other and talking, sometimes reaching over to pat or embrace him. Hutch was tearful about keeping it secret, agonized that Starsky had shut him out and promised— _promised_ —to be more careful next time.

Starsky knew Hutch wouldn’t, knew the sight of someone hurting, especially a hurting child, would override his self-protection as it always did. "Honestly, it’s a wonder you’re still alive," he said, half scolding, half affectionate, swiping at unkempt hair. Hutch leaned against him further, closing his eyes miserable.

Had Starsky gone too far? Rejection was something that hurt Hutch far too deeply. Even a couple of hours of it from Starsky had left him extremely vulnerable and uncertain. Apparently it wasn’t the right way to get through to him, just to hurt him. Starsky would have to be more careful, next time….

Next time.

There would be a next time, wouldn’t there?

At least he managed to extract a promise from Hutch that he’d let Starsky know next time he volunteered so Starsky could come along and—help. And, obviously, try to protect him from himself.

Sighing, Starsky rose from the couch at last. He had homework to do, and sleep to get. Life didn’t end just because Hutch seemed intent on running a razor’s edge of risk with his talent.

Hutch stared up at him, looking weary and older, and quite miserable. He stretched out a hand towards Starsky, then let his hand drop. "You’re going to leave, aren’t you, Starsk?" There was sadness and raw pain there, along with resignation.

This time Starsky didn’t hesitate. "No! I’m never leaving you!" The force of his denial and the anger that went with it surprised him and made Hutch blink.

"Because I saved your life?" Hutch looked wearier than ever.

"Because I love you, you moron." He sat back down on the edge of the couch and pulled Hutch into an embrace. "I was trying to get through to you—not scare you this bad." Hutch relaxed into his arms as though he needed this hug badly. Starsky ruffled his hair, and tightened his grip. _Stupid, stupid Hutch. How could I leave the best friend I ever had?_

Starsky sighed inwardly. For someone so good at fixing other people, Hutch was awfully damaged himself. The walking wounded.

Starsky went out of his way to stay close to Hutch as much as possible in the next few days, to reestablish contact with him often through nudges and soft touches. Hutch kept his eyes downcast, looking ashamed of his neediness, but he seemed grateful for each reminder of Starsky’s presence. Yet he was awkward and hesitant, as if afraid if he reached out, he’d be rebuffed.

It would take a while to fix, Starsky thought. But he would.

* * * *

"Did you leave the door open, Hutch?" Starsky called over his shoulder. They were returning home at the end of a long day. He pushed the door open, wondering if they could’ve been burgled. And stopped.

There stood Mr. Hutchinson and Hutch’s grandmother, right in the kitchen. Waiting grimly. Grandma wore a well-cut blue dress and held a purse. Mr. Hutchinson wore a suit.

"No. Must’ve been you." Hutch stepped into the room, almost plowing into Starsky, and then he stopped, too. "Dad. Grandma." His voice took on a light, almost breathy quality and Starsky could feel he was afraid.

Hutch turned to leave, blundering blindly.

"No," said his father. "You’re staying."

"Stay," said Grandma.

Hutch stopped. Starsky cast them a worried look; Grandma and Mr. Hutchinson looked much the way they’d looked when they went to punish the clan for hurting Starsky and Hutch. On a mission: one they didn’t relish.

Starsky turned to Hutch. "You’re okay." He squeezed Hutch’s arm, trying to reassure him that they would get through this, that Starsky would stick by him. Hutch was trembling all through his muscles. He stood very still, his eyes locked on his relatives, not seeing Starsky at all. How could they do this to him? Starsky whirled on the Hutchinsons. "You leave him alone! You’re scaring him!"

At the same time, Hutch’s shaky voice spoke. "Please, don’t do this."

The Family ignored him. Again.

Mr. Hutchinson strode forward.

"Don’t do it," said Starsky. "It’s part of who he is. Yeah, he drives me nuts too with it. I wish he’d save his strength. But you can’t just—"

"I can and I will. I’m his father." He took Hutch’s shoulders. Automatically, Starsky stepped forward to bat him away. "Be still," snapped Mr. Hutchinson, and Starsky was. Fury roiled in him, but he couldn’t move any more than if he’d been a statue.

Two tears slid down Hutch’s face. "Don’t do it, Father. I’ll—I’ll control it better. I’ll be careful." He was pleading—pleading as if for his life, when in reality, it was only part of his life. Part of what made him special and unique: made him Hutch.

"I’m sorry, son. I can’t let you keep doing this. I love you too much—even if you never speak to me again." His voice held a rough quality of emotion that made Starsky stare.

Hutch was still trembling, and Starsky saw the tracks of tears down his cheeks and his hopeless expression. "Will it hurt?" he asked miserably.

His father shook his head. "It won’t. You won’t even remember."

"Hutch won’t forget me will he? Don’t make him forget me!" said Starsky.

Mr. Hutchinson glanced at him with something like scorn. "No, he’ll remember you, just not how he met you." He turned away as if Starsky had become less than a worm to him.

" _Please_ don’t do this," said Hutch once more, one last hopeless plea for freedom. "Grandma—" He appealed to the grim, unhappy-looking woman past his father’s shoulder.

She held up the newspaper, folded to show Hutch’s picture, and tapped it with one wrinkled finger. "No."

"Hutch," said Starsky. Hutch turned towards him, and in his eyes Starsky saw all the despair and guilt and pleading and fear he’d never wanted to see in Hutch’s face. He was nearly in tears himself, though he understood what the Hutchinsons were trying to do. He appealed again to Mr. Hutchinson. "You can’t do this to him. You’re—you’re hurting him, changing him—"

Mr. Hutchinson turned away from him. "Go into the other room."

Starsky found he could move now—but only in a certain direction. He dragged his feet, tried to disobey, but in the end he was helpless. As they all were before the Hutchinsons.

He stood in the living room with his fists clenched, hating them for hurting Hutch.

A wall clock ticked.

　

　

　

　

　


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter nineteen

　

　

It was only a couple of minutes later that Hutch walked into the living room, looking vague and lost. His cheeks weren’t quite dry yet and his hair was mussed. He looked at Starsky vaguely.

"Hutch." Starsky moved towards him and took his arms, looking into his face, searching. He saw hazy uncertainty.

"Starsk." Hutch spoke as though searching for the word and only finding it with difficulty. "I’m really tired. I wanted to say something—but I can’t remember. I’ve forgotten." He reached up to rub his head, a furrow appearing between his brows.

Starsky’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and it was all he could do to keep from weeping. "Don’t worry about it, Hutch. Why don’t you lie down and take a rest? You look really tired."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I will." He headed towards his bedroom, walking a little unevenly. Starsky watched him go, then headed out to the kitchen.

The two Family members were almost out the door, Mr. Hutchinson’s hand on it to pull it shut after him. He looked grim, unhappy, and drained.

"Stop right there." Starsky glared at them, tears in his eyes. "You know you’ve hurt him? You’ve like—like spiritually castrated him!" The words were hard to get out. He’d thought of them while they were doing—it.

"He’ll recover," said his father. "He won’t remember his powers. He won’t be able to use them. He can have the life he always wanted without endangering himself."

"You’ve got to change him back," insisted Starsky. "I don’t want him to hurt himself either, but this isn’t the way. Now _you’re_ hurting him."

Mr. Hutchinson looked so weary and sad, his skin sort of translucent and gray. "I want my son to live, Starsky. And I’ve tried everything else I can do. I’m forced to think of this as an addiction, something he can no longer control that will kill him if not stopped. What father wouldn’t step in to save his son from that, if he could?"

Starsky took a deep breath, pressed his fingernails into his palms and spoke with strained calmness. "I know this is hard for you too, but you’ve got to undo it. It’s wrong. Can’t you see that?"

"I’m sorry, we can’t," snapped Grandma. "And you have no say in Family business. Do not contact us again about this." She turned and stumped down the stairs, her face a pained and angry mask.

Mr. Hutchinson and Starsky stared at one another for a long, hopeless moment.

"Look after him," said Mr. Hutchinson finally, in a low voice that didn’t sound much like him at all. "Take care of my son."

Then he turned and left.

* * * *

Starsky went to Hutch’s bedroom. He stood there and watched his partner sleep. And he cried the tears Hutch wouldn’t even know he needed anymore.

The next few days were strange. Hutch seemed smaller, diminished, lost. He had less confidence. Starsky could see it in the cautious way he approached things, uncertain how they worked or if he knew how to do them—and almost afraid to find out, as though he suspected the worst about himself. He also seemed weaker and needed to rest a lot.

Starsky helped him as much as he could, stuck near him, and sometimes in the evenings sat close to him, or put an arm around his shoulder, offering what comfort and reassurance he could.

Hutch didn’t question their closeness. He didn’t ask Starsky what he’d forgotten, but his brow often furrowed as if trying to remember.

At least Starsky still fit in his life. Hutch accepted all the help and all the gentleness and never questioned it. Even if he questioned everything else.

After a time, he seemed to fit back into his life. Getting good grades, exercising, even returning to volunteer with the sick children. And this time, he did read Dr. Seuss, and Starsky didn’t need to keep an eye on him.

But Starsky could’ve wept when he saw how much it hurt Hutch to see children were suffering. Hutch looked so confused, as if he thought he ought to be able to help and just couldn’t remember how.

Starsky was always especially gentle with him after a volunteer session. Where before it had often been Hutch reaching out to comfort and support Starsky, things had changed now, and Starsky was the one who initiated most of the hugs, the little comforting pats, or the time they’d spend on the couch, thigh to thigh, watching TV or studying.

Hutch never complained and seemed to find an anchor in the physical touch that reassured him and kept him from feeling quite as lost. But he didn’t reach out to Starsky, either to comfort or to ask for affection. He no longer seemed sure he had that right.

It ate at Starsky, not knowing if this hesitancy with him was something Mr. Hutchinson and Grandma had done, or if Starsky had done it himself by making Hutch feel rejected so recently.

Had those memories stuck with Hutch? Or was it the missing memories of the rest of his life that affected him this way?

* * * *

One day Hutch paused in the entrance to the living room. He stood there until Starsky looked up, smiled at him, and patted the couch. But instead of giving a rueful, relieved smile and sitting down, Hutch’s brow continued wrinkling.

"Starsk," he said. "I’ve forgotten something important, haven’t I?"

Starsky shut his textbook. "Yes, Hutch." He got up and walked over, trying to remain calm. Hutch deserved to know. If he wanted to. Even if it hurt. Starsky wasn’t going to be like his family, keeping him locked away for his own good. ‘Protecting’ him like that wasn’t real love.

"I’ll tell you if you want to know," Starsky promised, looking into his eyes.

For a long time, Hutch looked back. Then he tore his gaze away. "I—no thank you, Starsk." He spoke in a very quiet voice. "I think I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you."

Starsky put his hands on Hutch’s arms, meeting his troubled blue gaze squarely. "If you change your mind someday—and you probably will, Hutch—I’ll tell you. Just let me know what you want."

Hutch swallowed repeatedly. Worry constricted his face, made him look older. "I think I-I think I don’t want to know, Starsk. It’s something bad isn’t it?"

"Yes. Good, and bad, and—lots of things, all mixed together. It’s very complicated, but you’re a good guy in the story. You’re my hero, Hutch."

Hutch gave one small, doubtful nod, his brows wrinkling. "I don’t feel like a hero. I feel like I—lost something."

"You did. It wasn’t your fault. And I love you anyway."

They were simple words, not difficult for him to say, and yet Hutch blinked at them, at the simplicity and the openness in those words. "You do?" His head tilted slightly, his brow wrinkled with a questioning, wondering look.

"Always," affirmed Starsky.

"You do." Hutch looked at him with an expression of light growing in his eyes, where before there had been only doubtfulness and worry and a lost expression. "I—have the feeling I haven’t had much of that," he answered. "I mean, where no one wanted anything in return."

Starsky didn’t know what to say to that, but hearing it so matter-of-factly from Hutch made his throat tight. He rubbed Hutch’s arms, and he didn’t know what to say.

For the first time in ages, Hutch smiled his pure, sweet, innocent smile. "Good old Starsk," he said, and affectionately ruffled Starsky’s hair.

 _Yeah_ , promised Starsky silently, leaning against him for a hug, his arms going around Hutch and Hutch’s arms sliding comfortably around him in return, _I’ll be your good old Starsk, and you’ll still be my Hutch forever and ever, I don’t care how much or little you remember._ He gave Hutch an extra tight squeeze with this promise, cementing it in his heart. _I’ll look after you._

* * * *

In the years that followed, he kept his promise.

Outwardly, their lives followed the paths they hoped for: graduation, active police duty, and eventually, partners, patrolling the streets, keeping the world safe, side by side. Eventually they made detective together.

Through it all, Starsky found Hutch to be much the same, though there was a hurt place deep inside him and a strong desire to help people that often seemed frustrated with his merely-human efforts. Sometimes he got angry more than he used to. Sometimes he took that anger out on Starsky. But he never asked again about the secrets he’d forgotten.

What they’d done to him seemed to mess up his ability to interact with people. Instead of a shy but genuine young man, he became bitter and distrustful, wary of strangers, hardening himself against people, afraid they wanted to use him. Starsky saw the changes, and hated them. He hated how discontented Hutch seemed; how he could never believe anyone liked him for himself, and thought anyone who was nice to him only wanted to use him.

He was angry with his family, revealing it by bitter remarks, but if he remembered anything about their powers, he never said anything about it. Apparently Mr. Hutchinson and Grandma had truly made him forget all of it—a mercy in a way, but more often a cruelty. Hutch had never been so lost, so not-himself before they took away his power and his memories. And they didn’t have to see it every day; Starsky did.

Some days it was hard to stay Hutch’s friend. He got very good at pushing people away.

When Hutch wanted his space, Starsky tried to give it. Except for the times when being pushed away was really about Hutch just not wanting to be rejected or hurt by anyone, Starsky most of all.

One time when Hutch had been in a really foul mood for the last several days and drank too much, he shouted at Starsky. "Why do you stay? Why do you stick around? You don’t owe me anything! Why don’t you just—just—" And then his lower lip quivered. He stopped talking, his expression agonized.

Starsky walked up to him, caught his arms, and tugged him closer. "I’m not leaving you—ever. You hear me, Hutchinson? I don’t owe you, but I love you. You’re my partner. You’re my best friend. You’re my pal, Hutch." He almost couldn’t get the last words out, his throat was so tight.

Hutch broke down and wept on his shoulder, clinging to him like a child. It must have been what he needed to hear. Starsky held him tightly, and for a long time: just held his broken Hutch.

It wasn’t always an inequality about them. Hutch was just as loyal and brave as he’d ever been. He cared about Starsky and looked after him when he needed it, and joked with him and teased him and nagged about his eating habits. He was the best backup on the job a man could ask for, and the best friend Starsky had ever, or would ever, have.

If there was always something missing, there was a great deal of Hutch left: that beautiful human being who cared so much. Hutch was still a bright, shining sun in Starsky’s life. And if he occasionally slipped behind the clouds, Starsky was always there, ready to help him find his way back out.

* * * *

One day he woke up in the hospital, without memory of what had gone wrong. He was so very weak and had a tube in his mouth so he couldn’t talk. He looked around the best he could, his gaze bleary, every part of him aching even with painkillers flooding his system.

He saw Hutch.

Hutch’s hopeless, grim look left his face; his gaze brightened to one of shocked amazement, and he threw papers in the air and danced around the room with a nurse.

"You’re alive!" He sounded as though it was the last thing he’d expected, and the news he’d needed to hear most in his whole life.

Starsky could only look at him, promising with his eyes that he was still here, would remain here for Hutch.

　

　

　

　


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter twenty

　

　

Starsky’s recovery was slow. In Hutch, he found more loyalty and love than ever, and that was saying something. His partner was there to protect him, encourage him, tease him. He alone didn’t treat Starsky differently during his recovery. Except that he showed more affection.

But the journey was slow and the doctors said not to expect too much; it was a miracle Starsky had even survived.

Hutch never shared his memories of what happened. He wouldn’t talk about it at all, and he changed the subject if Starsky brought it up. Starsky could see in his partner’s eyes that those memories still haunted him, that he’d have liked to forget the sight of his partner, shot, possibly dying, lying a pool of his own blood.

They gave Starsky a medal and everything. He figured it would look good, on a man in a wheelchair. Show people he’d done something good to get here. He was only thirty-two, and the doctors said he would likely spend the rest of his life there, a life shortened by the injuries he’d sustained.

It was hard not to be bitter, especially when he was in pain. He wondered if a different choice would’ve brought a different outcome. What if he’d died instead of surviving this way? And what it would be like, if Hutch still had his power of removing pain, fixing people….

One day, Hutch was steering Starsky’s wheelchair home from a doctor’s appointment, when Starsky recognized someone up ahead. It stirred in his memory, jolting something he’d held close but nearly forgotten after all these years. The memories were sharp, piercing, painful.

The set of Mr. Hutchinson’s shoulders was just the same. He didn’t look a day older. Then he turned, and Starsky saw the gray of his hair, the extra lines around his face, the bitterest ones near his mouth. His eyes looked old and tired.

Mr. Hutchinson surveyed Hutch; Starsky hated how much alike they both looked, how worn down by life.

"Hello, Hutch," he said.

"Um—hi—Father," said Hutch, looking confused and pleased all at once. "I—haven’t seen you in ages." He extended a hand as if he couldn’t help himself.

Mr. Hutchinson shook his hand grimly. "You haven’t been in contact either."

"I-I know. I couldn’t—I’m glad to see you now," he finished awkwardly. "Starsky—this is Starsky, Father. I don’t think you’ve ever met him."

Mr. Hutchinson looked down at the man in the wheelchair, and Starsky looked back at him with a sarcastic, angry look, shading his eyes against the sun with one weakened hand.

Mr. Hutchinson’s grim gaze returned to his son, jaw set. "Ken, if you have the time, I need to talk to you about something."

"Sure. Let me just get Starsky settled—"

"Starsky too."

This time, they both gaped at him.

Hutch steered the wheelchair into Starsky’s living room without comment. Starsky had the feeling Hutch was afraid. He reached out and gripped his friend’s arm briefly, staring up into his eyes to communicate warmth, safety. _I’ll protect you, Hutch,_ he wanted to say. Even though it was a stupid thing to think. How could he protect anyone anymore?

Mr. Hutchinson sat down on the couch. He cast around for somewhere to rest his gaze, and landed on the picture on the nearest table: Starsky and Hutch on vacation at the Grand Canyon, arms around each other, posing and grinning, looking silly and happy. Starsky thought wistfully of those days when he’d taken his health for granted and never thought how lucky he was to be able to run and shout and feel fully human. Not to have to rely on other people for the simplest of things. Not to have to ration out his strength like a miser and say no to the things he really wanted to do.

These days, he felt like less of a man, diminished, not a real person but just someone to be manipulated through the hospital system by nurses and doctors hurrying on to the next patient, to get everyone finished.

The fact that Hutch wasn’t like that was the only reason Starsky hadn’t fallen into severe depression or completely given up hope. Yet. Some days, it was still awfully hard.

He looked back at Mr. Hutchinson and saw the man seem to reach a decision. He turned to face his son. "I think it’s time you remember the truth. I think you need to." He looked back at Starsky.

A thrill travelled through Starsky’s broken body. Was this really happening? The key was going to be turned. Hutch would be the old Hutch again, who really could smile without pain. Who could stop others’ pain. Who really could—

"Starsky?" asked Hutch in a small voice. "What’s he talking about?"

"You listen to him, Hutch. You listen to your dad now." He spoke in a shaky voice and reached blindly for Hutch’s hand, to squeeze it. "And I love you no matter what," he added, because he could feel Hutch was afraid something big was about to change.

At these words, Hutch relaxed a little.

And his father undid it. Grimacing a little, shadows of pain on his features, he spoke. "You will remember now. Remember the Family. Remember your own strength. You may have your power back. Please, don’t abuse it, son."

He rose and made as if to go, while Hutch was still gasping for air like a beached whale. "I-I—Grandma! And you—! How could you do that to me?" He glared at his father through tears. "I’m-I’m—"

His father faced him squarely, shoulders weary. "Your grandmother is dead, son. I came to give it back after seeing an article about your friend’s injuries. He’s still bonded to you, and if you’ve been together all this time, I can’t leave you unable to help him. I hope you’ve learned some wisdom in these years. But it’s out of my hands now. If you abuse it, if you try to kill yourself, I’ll not intervene again. I mean that, Hutch. I’m washing my hands of you."

"Grandma’s dead… Starsk…" Hutch reached out and squeezed his partner’s shoulder, sounding bewildered, miserable, uncertain and waffling between anger and sorrow. They were, after all, still his Family. He’d forgotten so much, had so much to remember, and he’d barely had moments to process it all.

At his touch, Starsky squeezed his eyes shut. Healing comfort, strength, and warmth slid into him, slow and languid, as if given unconsciously by Hutch. A dozen aches and pains eased, replaced by a warm comfort. He could sit up straighter, breathe easier. He opened his eyes and drew a deep breath, starting to feel alive again.

He looked up at Hutch, who was only now looking down, realizing with a startled blink what he could do again.

And then Hutch was on his knees in front of Starsky, touching here, there, all the hurt places, soothing comfort and healing into Starsky, almost too much at once, as excited as a child discovering a new toy. Between their laughter and tears, they didn’t hear Mr. Hutchinson leave.

"You’re going to have to fix me a little more slowly if you don’t want anyone to find out what you can do," Starsky warned after a while. Even though he wanted to be able to walk today, tomorrow at the latest, he dreaded the toll that would take on his partner. Mr. Hutchinson’s fears weren’t without substance any more than they’d been in the past. Maybe Hutch wasn’t quite an addict, but he could certainly overdo using his power and hurt himself helping others.

Hutch hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. He removed his hands, which were particularly gentle as he helped Starsky from the wheelchair and got him on the couch. He sat down beside him carefully. "It was killing me, to see you hurt and not be able to do anything. Killing me. Now I can," he said simply.

"But NOT too fast, buddy. I won’t thank you if you hurt yourself!"

Hutch crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out, and Starsky laughed aloud for the first time without it hurting. His silly partner was back—and so quickly. For the first time in years, he seemed fully like himself again.

And Hutch had been able to stop; perhaps he really had grown wiser in the years with no power, no strength of this kind.

They sat quietly talking about Hutch’s memories and Family for some time before Starsky stopped being able to suppress his yawns.

"Let’s get you to bed," announced Hutch reluctantly, rising to help Starsky back into the wheelchair.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah. But I think you ought to get in touch with your father. I think he’d like to get to know you again. You can see he misses his mother, and he’s not close with any of the rest of the Family."

"Why would I ever want to speak to that man again, Starsky?" Hutch asked quietly. He bent, and lifted Starsky carefully.

Starsky caught his sleeve. "Hutch, he didn’t have to come back. He didn’t have to let you remember."

Hutch sat him carefully back into his wheelchair. "I’ll think about it." He reached out and gently brushed back Starsky’s hair. "Just think, you won’t be stuck here much longer, partner."

They shared a hopeful grin. Then Hutch helped Starsky to bed with the unselfconsciousness and skill of a medical worker, but less impersonal.

He flicked off the big light, and hesitated in the bedroom doorway on his way out, a silhouette.

"So I’ll see you tomorrow?"

"Uh huh." Starsky’s eyelids kept drifting lower.

"And I’ll fix you more then."

"Don’t rush." Starsky’s jaw made a cracking sound as he yawned, and he grimaced. Sleep was definitely winning. Despite the big day they’d had, how much there was to think and talk about, biology took over, demanded its way.

Hutch still hesitated in the doorway. "And… thanks, Starsk. Thank you—f-for everything. All these years. Thank you."

He turned and hurried from Starsky’s apartment before the stunned and sleepy man could think of anything to say in reply.

 _He thanks_ me _?_ _Wow._

If anything, that proved it: Hutch was back. His broken Hutch could heal with the returned memories and abilities. And now—if they went slowly enough, if Hutch didn’t drain himself too greatly—why, Starsky would be completely well again, too. They could continue being cops if they wanted, or be anything, anything else they wanted, anything at all.

Starsky drifted to sleep, smiling, so glad to be free of pain, and full of hope for both of them and the future.

In his dreams, he and Hutch flew down the streets side by side, saving the world.

As usual.

　

 

 

<<<the end>>>

 

 

 

 


End file.
